How the Light Gets In
by Becks Rylynn
Summary: History repeats itself. This is a fact of life. It's the way of the world. Where you've been is where you'll be. Two hundred and eight days after fate rips Laurel Lance out of the world, leaving Dean Winchester in nearly the exact same position his father was in thirty three years ago, someone knocks on his door in the middle of the night. This is only the beginning of the story.
1. A Caged Bird

**Title:** _How the Light Gets In_  
 **Fandom(s):** Arrow, Supernatural  
 **Summary:** History repeats itself. This is a fact of life. It's the way of the world. Where you've been is where you'll be. The end is always in the beginning. Two hundred and eight days after fate rips Laurel Lance out of the world, leaving Dean Winchester in nearly the exact same position his father was in thirty three years ago, someone knocks on his door in the middle of the night. This is only the beginning of the story. No one ever tells you how to exist in the aftermath of a crushing loss. No one tells you how you're supposed to live without her here. No one tells you what to do when she comes home either.  
 **Pairing(s):** Dean Winchester/Laurel Lance. Implied past Dean/Laurel/Tommy.  
 **Genre:** Angst/Family  
 **Warnings:** PTSD, depression, pregnancy (past), canon character death, blood and gore, violence, alcoholism/addiction, grief/mournig, hurt with very little comfort.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters you recognize.

 _AN: Okay, here it is. The first part of the D/L fix it fic I've been working on since August. I was going to wait until mid January to post part one because I'm going away for a month and won't be able to update, but I'm spite posting now because I have no self control._

 _A few important notes before you read the fic:_

 _\- This fic is completely AU after 4x18 of Arrow. There might be some elements of things that happened after but I don't watch that show anymore so I'm not up to date on what's happening and it doesn't really matter for this fic anyway. I actually haven't watched any of DCTV since Laurel's death so any mentions of Sara's time traveling adventures and what's happening with Team Flash are most likely going to be AU-ish._  
 _\- Everything up until mid season seven of Supernatural happened (except that obviously Dean didn't go to Lisa and Ben at the end of season five but instead met Laurel) but it veers AU after Bobby's death._  
 _\- The Arrow timeline is tweaked a bit. The series started in October of 2012 but I'm changing it ever so slightly so that Oliver came home in late August/early September of 2012 instead._  
 _\- Updates WILL take awhile. I'm planning on each installment being as long as possible and also my life has gotten weirdly busy over this past year._

* * *

there is a crack in everything  
that's how the light gets in  
 **\- leonard cohen**

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 **Part One:**

 _A Caged Bird_

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Mary Beatrice Winchester is born at home on October 31st, 2012 at 11:23pm to two terrified parents. They love her instantly and ferociously with every inch of their bruised and broken hearts. They're just not quite sure what to do with her.

This is not news.

They have been stumbling around, scared and unsure, for nine months. Uncertainty has become their way of life. But after the baby is born, after she's given the final push and collapsed back against him, breathing heavily and trying to focus on the sound of his voice telling her he's so proud of her and the sound of their daughter's cries, and after this slimy, squawking, _perfect_ little girl has been placed on her chest, things change. Labor was long and hellish and they have both been so focused on the situation at hand that they almost forgot that the end goal was, you know, a child. Who they have to raise. All by themselves. Forever. So, after the euphoria has been replaced by shock and they've got this shrieking bundle to look after, they look at each other, wide eyed, and the only thing running through their heads is, _what have we done?_ Closely followed by, _what now?_

It's not the baby's fault. It's not her fault that she's been born to two messed up parents. Their beautiful girl - named for her paternal grandmother and her maternal great grandmother - is amazing. Beyond amazing. She's everything they could ever want. It's just a truly terrifying concept. These two human disasters raising a kid. Imagine that.

The pregnancy was, to put it lightly, unplanned; a result of birth control failure due to antibiotic use. When she stood at the bathroom sink, peering down at that plastic stick that read, clearly and firmly, _pregnant_ , the only thing she could muster up was terror and a mumble of, ''Shit.'' He'd said the same thing (and then downed two beers in less than ten minutes) when she broke the news to him. Neither one of them had jumped for joy. For the first couple of weeks they both staggered around in shock, fumbling through awkward conversations about their options, tip toeing around each other, going through the motions of everyday life with this huge, life changing thing hanging over their heads.

It hadn't been a great time to bring a baby into their relationship.

He was grieving Bobby Singer, he was drinking more (to the point where the first thing he did when he woke up in the mornings was reach for the whiskey and he couldn't get to sleep at night without at least three or four beers), he was home less, and he seemed more interested in revenge than the woman he claimed he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. She was half-heartedly planning a wedding that she wasn't sure was ever going to happen and she was barely home herself, busy getting CNRI off the ground with Joanna, finally where she wanted to be when it came to work, money was tighter than usual, and his drinking was starting to scare her the way her father's did.

A baby had not been in the plans.

Life, as they have learned, rarely goes according to plan. Bad timing or not, they wanted this baby. They _want_ this baby. They made the decision, together, to go through with the pregnancy, to figure shit out as they go along, to become parents, and now here she is: this tiny, fragile slip of a thing who completely depends on their sorry asses to stay alive. Can you imagine anything more terrifying than that?

They're so glad their Halloween baby is here. She's their pumpkin girl, their little bird, their Mary Bea (a nickname that quickly morphs into ''Honeybee'' as she gets older), their saving grace, but the complete and utter helplessness is a scary thing. They have no idea how to be parents. They have no idea what to do with this flailing, squalling creature.

A few days after the birth, when she opens up and confides in her father about this all consuming fear, he just chuckles warmly and says, ''Welcome to parenthood, Laurel. None of us know what we're doing.''

Parenthood, as it turns out, is a tangled mess of helplessness, joy, and an overwhelming love.

Years later, on Mary's fourth birthday, it's still the same.

Dean is still terrified 95% of the time, he loves his kid with the ferocity of a beast, and she is, without a single doubt, the greatest joy of his life. The only difference is that now he's a widowed single father and all of that is his and his alone.

See, history repeats itself. Someone told him that once. This is a fact of life. It's the way of the world. Where you've been is where you'll be. The end is always in the beginning. All of that fucking bullshit that makes your skin crawl. Makes you wonder what the point is, doesn't it? If we're all doomed to repeat the tragedies of history, why even bother in the first place? If you knew how it would end, would you even want to begin?

 _History,_ he thinks, twisting his wedding ring wistfully and remembering all of the times he used to watch his father do the same thing. _What a joke._

Suppose it's an inescapable truth, isn't it? History repeats itself. It will always repeat itself. Often in the most horrific ways.

You can never get away from where you've been.

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Mary's birthday has always been a big event within her family - both Winchester and Lance. For the Lance family, she's the first grandchild. Born before Sara's miraculous reappearance, she was the only thing that could bring them all together as a family for awhile there. For the Winchester family, she is the one good and pure thing to come out of their messed up lives. For both families, but especially for her parents, she is a reason to hold on.

For such a little girl, she has managed to hold a lot of hearts in her small hands in her four years of life.

It's only right to mark her birth with a massive celebration.

Her birthday parties are always extravagant, carefully planned, and flawlessly executed. We're talking themes and games and bouncy castles. Piles of presents, a big cake, and then she gets to go trick or treating and winds up getting extra candy when people find out it's her birthday. It's the one day of the year where her family - both Winchester and Lance - can be in the same room without arguing, the one day a year without anything catastrophic happening, and every year, she goes to bed a spoiled and happy girl. Laurel did that. She did all of that. Sure, Dean has always helped but it was Laurel's rodeo, her world, and his help usually just consisted of doing whatever she told him to do. She was the one who planned the parties, started writing notes for next year's party on November 1st, made all of the reservations, hired professional photographers, and spent money they never really had in order to make sure Mary had everything that they never did growing up.

Laurel is not here this year.

If he's being honest, neither is Dean.

He _tries._ He's been trying for months to pretend that he's really here and not six feet underground with her or stuck in an endless loop of April 6th. He doesn't think he's all that convincing. But he needs to be here for this, he needs to be present, so he throws all of the leftover pieces of himself into planning this party. He uses the notes Laurel had been making, he invites everyone Mary has ever met, and he throws the bash at a local indoor playground that costs way too much. He recruits family and friends to help - Thea throws money at the party like it grows on trees, Sara takes an extended vacation from her time traveling adventures to help with the party and spend some time with her niece, and Sam and Cas buy an entire toy store. Because Mary's birthday falls on a Monday this year, he throws the big party on the Saturday before. There's ice cream cake, presents, almost all of the kids from her preschool are there, and Mary - who is normally shy to the point where she doesn't like interacting with anyone other than people she sees every day - has such a good time and eats so much sugar that she doesn't seem to mind bouncing around in the ball pit with kids she usually avoids like the plague.

Technically, the party goes off without a hitch. Sure, the adults probably have more fun with the obstacle courses than the kids - who spend most of their time in the ball pit or on the trampolines and staunchly avoiding climbing anything. Yes, Laurel's father cries at least twice, there's alcohol on his breath within an hour of his arrival, and he's so tipsy by the end of the party that he doesn't even notice when Sam picks his pocket for his car keys and tosses them to Sara. But Mary has a good time and nobody vomits in the ball pit, which was a real concern. She loves her presents. She _loves_ her ice cream cake. She even makes some friends.

By the time they're packing up, she is conked out in Thea's arms and Dean is too exhausted to even think about how fucking unfair it is that there was an empty spot all day long where Laurel should have been.

On Sunday, he takes her out, says they're having a Daddy and Mary day, and tells her that they can do whatever she wants to do. She wastes no time demanding tacos and waffles and telling him that she wants to see ''fishies.'' So he takes her for a waffle breakfast, takes her to the aquarium, and takes her out for a taco lunch after making her reluctantly promise to eat her vegetables at dinner. Before they go home, she insists that they need to do one last thing, and that's how Dean winds up kneeling in front of Laurel's grave, hands in the dirt, planting flowers. It's October and the weather doesn't exactly lend itself to growing flowers and it's a shit feeling to have the dirt covering your dead wife all over your hands, but Mary wants to plant flowers for her mom, so they plant flowers. Well, Dean plants the flowers. Mary mostly sits cross legged and babbles, going on and on about her birthday party (often repeating the same thing two or three times) as if she's talking to her mom and not just a hunk of stone.

On her actual birthday, Halloween, there's a small hastily thrown together party with mostly just family and then she gets to go trick or treating. She is ridiculously excited about her Flash costume. She's been talking about it for months. Impulsively, Dean bites the bullet, swallows his pride, and asks Oliver for a favor. He won't lie: It's pretty fucking humiliating to have to beg that idiot for a favor, especially considering that their relationship has gone from unpleasant but grudgingly civil to all out antagonistic ever since April. Oliver still does it. He has his price of course (drop the lawsuit Dean had Joanna slap him with over that damn statue) but he makes the call.

When the real Flash - her second favourite superhero - zooms into their path on the way home from trick or treating to compliment Mary on her costume, it's all worth it. The groveling, dropping the lawsuit that he was so proud of, owing that douchebag a favor, it's all worth it to see the look on Mary's face as Barry clumsily - but happily - stumbles through clearly hastily learned sign language just to be able to wish her a happy birthday. Laurel would have loved to see that look on their girl's face.

Dean goes all out for her birthday. He drains himself empty to be able to give her some semblance of normal. To be able to give her happiness. None of it is good enough. He tries his hardest to give her everything but he can't give her everything. All of the ice cream and presents and candy can't fill the space where her mother should be. It doesn't heal the hurt. There is a gaping emptiness in all of the pictures from her party where Laurel deserves to be, and he can't make that better. His efforts to give her something perfect and uncomplicated all end in depressing, sleepless nights where his hands shake so badly and all he can think about is how much he needs Laurel or how badly he wants a drink. Every night always ends the same: with him thinking about how all he wants to do is pack a bag, load Mary into the car, and run far away from this toxic city that ripped their world away from them. Except he did that. He took Mary to Kansas for a couple weeks in July and it was a disaster of epic proportions, complete with full blown hallucinations and everything.

On Saturday, after Mary has opened her presents (the Black Canary action figure, the Captain America shield, the Elsa dress that she immediately puts on and gets chocolate ice cream all over, the remote control car, the disturbing mechanical dog thing that he resolves to ''lose'' as soon as possible), he catches sight of his daughter from across the room. Jody is crouched in front of her and Mary is looking strangely subdued. He watches her rub her eyes before signing, _I want Mom_. Dean doesn't see what Jody's response to that is because he has to leave, muttering that he needs to make a call just so that he can get away from the screeching children and the suffocating heartache subtly written on everyone's faces.

On Sunday, he's kneeling in the grass, hands full of dead wife dirt, watching his kid talk to a concrete slab. Mary traces Laurel's name without really realizing what she's doing. She looks at the picture on the gravestone quizzically, the one of Laurel's smiling face, and he can practically see the gears working in her head, trying to understand what this dirt and grass and stone has to do with her beloved mother. Mary doesn't really understand what a grave is. She knows that this is where they left Mom, that this piece of rock has her name on it, so clearly that means Mom is right here, listening. Dean is not about to take that away from her. ''Bye bye, Mommy,'' she says before they leave, waving, ''love you!'' Before Dean can lead her away, she wrenches away from his grip, runs up to the slab of stone and kisses the picture of her mother. It's hard to breathe through that one.

And on her birthday, at the end of the night, Dean still winds up right here, standing frozen and guilty in front of his daughter, wishing that there was something he could do to switch places with Laurel because she would be so much better at this.

The night goes as smoothly as possible. Everyone keeps busy, everyone stays focused on Mary, and Mary is four years old. She's sad when she wakes up on her birthday and her mom's not there but she bounces right back. That night, after he's gotten her out of her costume and into her footie pajamas with the little smiley face cupcakes on them, he asks her if she's had a good birthday. She says yes and chatters animatedly while he helps her get ready for bed. She talks about her presents and the Flash and how she thinks that Auntie Charlie and Auntie Sara should just move in with them and never leave ever again. However, when he's putting her hair brush away, she gets real quiet. She's playing with that stuffed shark that Sara can't even look at and she looks like she wants to say something. He lets it go for a minute. Figures she's just tired. It's been a long day.

He picks up a few random toys from the floor and dumps them into her toy chest, making a mental note to clean her room next weekend. He's not entirely sure how to react to the headless Barbie doll he picks up from halfway under her bed, though. Despite her weird habit of laughing in her sleep, which is far creepier than it sounds, he's pretty sure his daughter's not a budding psychopath, so he just chucks the doll on the dresser and decides to look for the head tomorrow so he can fix it. When he turns his attention back to her, she's still frowning down at her shark with this oddly contemplative look on her face.

''Mary,'' he says, and she doesn't react to the sound of his voice. He moves around from the right side of the bed to the left and says, a little louder this time, ''Mary.''

She looks up.

He pauses _. Are you okay?_ He signs.

She doesn't respond - either verbally or in sign language.

He sighs. He flicks off the light, leaving just the lamp on her bedside table and the glow in the dark stars on her ceiling as the only sources of light. ''What's up?''

Mary shrugs. Then she asks, seriously, furrowed brow and everything, ''Can I be mad?''

He frowns. ''Uh, I don't know, honey. Who are you mad at?''

She doesn't answer. Again, he worries it's because she hasn't heard him. Hazards of being deaf in one ear. She's still a little clumsy with her sign language (mostly because her hands can't quite keep up with her head just yet) and she's getting better at lip reading every day but you can't read lips if you're looking down. Just as he's about to attempt to try again, she raises her head and answers the previous question, ''Mommy.''

That's where he freezes. Just goes completely still, wide eyed, and panicked. A complete shutdown.

It's not that Mary can't be angry. She can be. He's been angry for months. Every night, he lies awake in bed and goes over every second of that day, thinking of all of the things he could have done differently, all of the things she could have done, all of the different ways she could have lived, and it always makes him so angry. He switches from grief to rage and back again every night. One would think the worst feeling in the world is to lose someone suddenly and to know that nothing could have saved them, that you were completely helpless and so were they. Turns out the worst feeling is when you lose someone suddenly and have to live your life knowing that you didn't have to lose her, that you could have saved her, that a thousand different factors could have saved her.

Mary is allowed to have those emotions too. He'd give anything for her not to have to feel this excruciating pain but this is their life now. The pain is there. It's not going away. It's part of them now. People tell him that it'll get better but there's no real proof of that. He just doesn't want her to ever feel like her emotions hurt him somehow or that she has to keep them from him. His dad did that, and he refuses to be anything like his dad. Mary owns the right to be angry, to be sad, to miss her mom, to feel anything she needs to feel.

It's not like he doesn't want her to talk about Laurel either. Regardless of how much it hurts, Dean consciously tries to talk to Mary about Laurel every day. Things she did or said, things she liked, everything she used to do with Mary, just little ways to keep her here, keep her alive. He feels like it's important. His father never talked about his mother and it just made everything worse. The loss spread like an infection, grew roots inside of him, sprawled out through his whole body, into his bloodstream, his bones, and he had to keep all of that hurt inside because he was too afraid of his father to talk about it. He will not let Mary feel that. If she has to be without Laurel, he's going to do everything he can to make sure she remembers her.

But what is he supposed to do with this? How is he supposed to make this better? How does he navigate all of this?

''You're mad at your mom,'' he echoes dumbly, blinking and trying to come up with something that helps and isn't as stupid and useless as _sorry you feel that way_ or some shit like that.

''She didn't come to my party,'' she pouts. ''She...'' She pauses, staring up at him with her big earnest green eyes, so much like her mother's that every time he looks at her it physically hurts. ''Mommy went away to Heaven,'' she tells him, signing along with her every word. ''She went away.'' She stops, looking entirely confused and not at all sure how she's supposed to handle that information.

''She did,'' he agrees carefully. He slips into her bed awkwardly, like he does every night. It's an extremely uncomfortable bed to be in if you're six foot one and he's pretty sure he's developed chronic neck pain from accidentally falling asleep in this bed too many times to count over the past seven months but you gotta do what you gotta do when you're a parent. Especially if you're a single parent. He pulls something hard out from under his upper back. It's the Barbie doll head. Because of course it is. On a better night, the small moment of absurdity might help ease the pain a little. Tonight is not a better night.

Mary heaves a sigh. ''I'm tired of her being in Heaven.''

''I...'' He clears his throat. ''Me too.'' He puts the doll's head on the bedside table and tries to think of something comforting. What would help here? What makes this better? ''You can be as mad as you want,'' he tells her softly. He doesn't know what else he can say. ''I'm mad, too.'' He curls an arm around her and pulls her over to him.

Even as squirmy and hyperactive as she's been today, she doesn't protest. She just drops her head to his chest and lays with her good ear pressed to his chest so she can hear his heartbeat. It's something she's done since she was a baby. There are handfuls of pictures with Mary all curled up on his chest or Laurel's chest just listening to their heartbeats. The pictures have always been bittersweet. With her progressive hearing loss, there will come a day where she won't be able to hear their heartbeats, no matter how hard she listens. Now those pictures are bittersweet for two reasons.

Dean stares up at the ceiling for a minute before looking down at Mary. She's playing with his wedding ring, spinning it around and around on his finger. When Mary had been diagnosed with Pendred syndrome - some stupidly rare genetic condition that you can only get if both of your parents are carriers; inevitably a result of the crappy Winchester luck - Laurel had cried all day long. She had mourned for the childhood their daughter wasn't going to have. She had been scared. ''I know it sounds selfish,'' she had said, ''but I don't want her to forget my voice. I don't want her to forget what our heartbeats sound like.''

''She won't,'' he'd said. ''Laur, she's the only one who knows what your heartbeat sounds like from the inside. That'll always be with her.''

It had been, strictly speaking, a lie. He'd just needed something that would cheer her up. She was grieving for a child who was still right there, blowing spit bubbles and peering up at them with a gummy baby smile, and he had wanted to ease the fear that was written all over her face. He made up some flowery bullshit and hoped that, whether she believed it or not, it made it a little more bearable. But now... He and Mary are here, they're right here, they are still right here, and they're alone. They're surrounded by all of these people who care about them and want to help but none of them are Laurel. None of them are that specific missing piece and it's so agonizing. This is a real fucked up thing they've got here, and all he can do is cling to the tiny shred of hope that maybe what he'd said all those years ago will actually come true.

He hopes that there _is_ a part of Mary that will always remember - even if it's just a subconscious memory - the sound of her mother's heartbeat. He hopes it plays in surround sound in her dreams. Hopes it's engrained in her, stained in her memory, written on her ribs, a part of her the way his own mother's laughter is still a part of him. He hopes, somewhat desperately, that Mary still has these pieces of Laurel inside of her and that she always will because pieces are all they have now.

His mother has always stayed with him in pieces. Her laugh, the way her eyes sparkled in the sunlight, the scent of lilacs. These things follow him. They're with him wherever he goes. Time can change things. Memories are fluid - they ebb and flow. Some days they're vivid, some days they're hazy, faded and yellowed at the edges but never completely gone; illuminated in his chest, in his head, in every part of him from his fingertips down to his toes. Mary might forget her mother's voice. There's no way around that. She will lose her. Slowly, maybe, over the course of years, but she _will_ lose her. Laurel will blur at the edges, but if Mary can hang on to her heartbeat, to the way she used to cup her cheek so lovingly, to the smell of vanilla and coffee and lavender, then a piece of Laurel Lance will always be here, just like she used to promise every night.

Dean knows this. He knows there are ways of keeping the dead alive long after they're gone. He also knows that it's not good enough. It's not anywhere near good enough. Mary deserves to have more than pieces of the mother who loved her and fought for her every single day. He wants more than pieces. More than the things left behind - the half empty glass of water on her bedside table that he hasn't touched, the book she was in the middle of reading, all of the makeup and lotions and creams and essential oils he doesn't know what to do with.

When you get married, you're supposed to end up with a spouse. All Dean has is the strands of hair left behind in her brush and a lipstick print on a coffee mug that he can't bring himself to wash. When you have kids, you're supposed to be able to watch them grow up. You're supposed to be there for the birthdays, the Halloweens, the Christmases, the scraped knees, the broken hearts. Laurel didn't even get four years.

It has been seven months.

Over half a year without her here with them. Two hundred and eight days of this exhausting half-life, and it's not getting any easier. It gets harder with every horrifyingly painful moment that goes by. There is no lesson here. There's nothing to learn from this loss, this breaking, this crushing grief. Frankly, the only thing he's learned is how to better understand the way Bukowski felt when he was writing about Jane.

''Do you remember,'' he starts, glancing down at the girl flopped against his chest, ''what your mom used to tell you before she went to work?''

Mary nods.

''No matter where I go,'' he recites, ''a piece of me will always be - ''

''Right here with me,'' Mary finishes with a decisive nod.

''Right here with you,'' he whispers. That had been a nightly ritual between Laurel and Mary. It was their thing and it was infinitely important to Laurel. She wouldn't leave the house without saying it. Except on April 6th. When she left the house that night, Mary had already fallen asleep on the couch. She had wanted to call from the hospital later on, just to hear her daughter's voice, but she was gone before she could make the call. Nobody knows that. He hasn't told anyone. It's hard to live with that one. ''She's still with you,'' he says, and Mary raises her head, eyes widened in alarm.

''A ghost?''

''No, not a - not a ghost.'' He pauses. Oh, he is so not the right person to be doing this kind of thing. This was always Laurel's expertise. She would say... What would she say? He worries at his lower lip before drawing in a nervous breath. ''You have her eyes, Mary,'' he says quietly.

She, apparently, find this hilarious. ''Nu-uh, silly. These are mine.''

''Not the same eyes, baby, but they look like hers. And your nose.''

Mary grabs her nose. ''This is my nose,'' she declares proudly. She giggles at the sound of her nasally voice.

''Yeah, that thing,'' he says, reaching out to tweak her little nose. ''Your nose looks like hers. You both wrinkle your noses like rabbits when you're unimpressed. And it's just as adorable when you do it.''

Mary's beaming now, perched on her knees and seemingly engrossed in the conversation. ''What else?''

It's late, and he should be winding her down rather than riling her up but it's her birthday. She can skip another day of school if she needs to. It's preschool. It's not like she'll miss a midterm. Besides, she hates it anyway. Tonight, it's her birthday and she wants to hear about her mother. ''Your mom was warm. She was kind and funny,'' he says. ''You get all that from her. Her kindness, especially. You're a good kid, honeybee.''

At that, Mary suddenly gets very serious. _Be good_ , she signs.

He raises an eyebrow and signs back, _What?_

''Mommy says always be good,'' she says. ''I try to be good.''

He has to swallow hard. ''You're good,'' he chokes out, and has to clear his throat. ''Baby, you're the best. All that goodness inside of you is hers. You got all of that light from your mother.''

''And you,'' she says, so easily. She doesn't even think twice about it. ''Right, Daddy?''

He can't respond to that. ''Your mom is always going to be with you, Mary. I know it's not the same but she'll be with you forever, okay? She's here,'' he points to her heart, ''and here,'' he touches her temple. ''That's where we'll keep her. Sound good?''

She nods, but doesn't look totally satisfied with his words. He gets that. He's not satisfied with them either. She settles back down into bed, lying down and pulling the stuffed shark closer to her. ''I miss Mommy in the morning,'' she whispers. ''She never ever wakes me up now. Do you miss her in the morning?''

In the morning, at night, during the day, from sunrise to sunset. ''Every day,'' he answers honestly. Every day for the rest of his life. ''But we're doin' okay, right?'' He pastes on his best cheerful smile for her. ''You and me, honeybee.'' He wraps an arm around her and pulls her closer to drop a kiss to the crown of her head. ''She'd be proud of us.'' He's not sure that's true. There are some things he's done over the past several months that he definitely doesn't think she would be proud of. ''You ready for a story?''

She signs, Yes.

''Which one?''

Immediately, her eyes light up. ''Wild things!'' She cheers, and all of the seriousness from their conversation disappears. He hopes that's a good thing.

Mary hands him the book, cuddles into his side with her stuffed shark, and there's a moment - just like there is every night - where he takes in a breath, looks at his beautiful daughter with her mother's eyes and her mother's nose and he thinks, _well, it could be worse_. Sometimes he's not sure where he would be right now if he didn't have Mary. Back on the road, maybe. Saving people, hunting things, trying to find solace in the bottom of a bottle, half dead and looking for a way out. Other times, he knows exactly where he would be if he didn't have Mary. He would have gone with Laurel. He wouldn't have made it to May. It's just a fact. Laurel gave him the light and he would have chased it anywhere if it weren't for this little piece of her leftover.

Dean flips open the copy of Where the Wild Things Are, eyes finding the messy, shaky block letters written in blue pencil crayon in the top left corner, clearly written by a child rather than an adult. _Property of Dinah Laurel Lance! Not Sara!_ His lips twitch and he runs his fingers over the words briefly. He looks at Mary again.

For what it's worth, he is glad he made it here with her.

He turns the worn out page of the worn out book, the one Laurel loved, Mary's favourite, and he starts to read. _''The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind...''_

.

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.

 **April, 2016**

 _Here is the beginning and the end of it: Death is simple. Brutally, painfully simple. People are alive - they walk, they talk, they breathe air, they eat, they drink their coffee, they browse the internet, they fuck when they want to and sleep when they can - and then they're not. There is nothing more to the story. No way to dress death up as something meaningful or beautiful. There is no reason why. It just happens._

 _People are here, and then they're not._

 _One day, you won't be here either. You'll spend the entirety of your miserable life sad and desperate, searching and scrambling to find that one thing that makes you feel alive, and then you'll die. It's life. Nobody gets out alive._

 _Dean Winchester has spent the past 30+ years having that particular life lesson beaten into him. It's branded into his skin. Death will happen. It will come for you, for the people you love, and it will take you apart. Sometimes you'll be able to cheat it. Sometimes you won't. You'll hurt and plead, you'll pray to a God who doesn't care about your unimportant, insignificant little life, and you'll end up alone._

 _You will always end up alone._

 _At this point in his life, after all of the loss, all of the blood he's had to wash away, all of the bodies he's had to burn, he is practically an old hat at grief. You'd think he would be used to it by now; this hollow ache, this nagging emptiness, this crater in the center of him that just keeps getting bigger and bigger._

 _He's not._

 _How can anyone ever get used to this?_

 _The cruelty and unfairness of loss is like having the ground beneath your feet ripped away from you. That's not something anyone can shake off or get used to. If you were to ask him about pain - and we're talking about real pain here; that gaping wound, chasm in your chest kind of pain that leaves you on the floor, pulling out your own hair - he would tell you about this._

 _April 6th, 2016, three days before her 31st birthday, at 11:59pm._

 _The moment she left._

 _You don't know the meaning of agony until you've been in that moment. Until you have begged on your knees in a hospital hallway._

 _Dean comes home at five o'clock in the morning, just as the sun is beginning to peak over the hills. His entire body feels heavy. He feels like he's sinking, like someone has weighed him down with stones and pushed him into the water. There's a fog in his brain that won't let him think clearly and he feels dazed and out of it. It's shock. He's in shock. He's sane enough to realize that but not enough to know what to do about it. It's a twenty minute drive from their house in the suburbs to the hospital. He remembers the drive there. He remembers breaking every speed limit, cursing at red lights, pleading with anyone who was listening to please not take her, convinced the pain in his chest was a heart attack. He remembers every painful second of that drive. He remembers nothing from the drive home. He doesn't even remember leaving the hospital. The last thing he remembers is the way her cold hand felt as it slipped out of his for the last time when they wheeled her away from him._

 _It's quiet when he steps into the house, save for the sounds of the birds chirping outside as the sun rises, and the ticking of that old grandfather clock that used to belong to Beatrice Drake. He stops when he enters the house, standing frozen in his spot, keys dangling from his limp fingers. He stares into the emptiness and drinks in the sight of his home. Her home. The place where she lived and loved._

 _There are pictures of her here, her watch is on the coffee table, there's a pair of heels abandoned haphazardly by the door where she left them, her coat on the rack, her briefcase on the desk in the corner of the room. She decorated this place from top to bottom, picked out the paint colors, the arrangement of the furniture, the new couch, the rug on the hardwood floor. She lovingly placed all of these framed photographs on end tables and hung them on the walls until happy, smiling faces cluttered the living room like a map of their lives from beginning until..._

 _Dean sucks in a sharp breath._

 _He does not have to look very hard to find her here._

 _She's everywhere. She's in the floorboards, the curtains, the mismatched pillows, the rings on the coffee table because she never used a coaster. She is in every square inch of this house. Dean's hands built the furniture, Mary brought spills and messes and piles and piles of toys, Thea's music wafts through the house from her bedroom on any given day, but it was Laurel who made this place a home. What is it now? Is a house still a home when the person who made it one is in a cold drawer in the morgue?_

 _She was here, and now she's not._

 _What is he supposed to do with that? It feels like a violation to say out loud, to even think it, but there it is. It's a fact. The latest headline in their cruel and fucked up world._

 _Laurel Lance is dead._

 _Panic blooms in his chest - this intense, burning, breathless ache that travels from his chest down to his gut and up in his throat. It's in his heart and it's in his head and he can't breathe. His wife is dead. The mother of his child. The Black Canary. The fucking light at the end of a long and twisted tunnel. He spent so long fighting against the idea of having a family because he was so terrified of becoming his father and now here he is. In the same spot his father was all those years ago. He spent so long in a chaotic life full of misery, searching for solace in dive bars and back alley hook ups, trying to drown in sex and alcohol, stuck in the dark with nowhere to go, and then she came along and opened a window. She slowed it all down for him. And he got used to it. He got so used to it. He was happy, so he got comfortable. Too comfortable. He got complacent. He shouldn't have. Look what happened._

 _''Everybody leaves you, Dean,'' his mother's voice taunts in his head. ''You noticed?'' That moment has never left him. It's been years since Zachariah conjured up that demonic version of his mother and he still remembers every millisecond of that painful trick. The image of his beloved mother standing there in her white nightgown, eyes yellow, smirking, the sound of her mocking voice. It's always there in the back of his head, responsible for at least 40% of his daily terror._

 _Laurel used to try and comfort him whenever he'd talk about it. She'd run her fingers through his hair and remind him that he had her and she wasn't going anywhere. She told him that a lot. That she wasn't going anywhere. ''Not everyone who loves you will leave you, Dean,'' she'd say._

 _A bitter and hysterical laugh bubbles in his throat but he chokes it down._

 _Not everyone who loves you will leave you._

 _But here we are._

 _Life has made a liar out of her._

 _He should have been with her. Why wasn't he with her? His car keys slip from his hand and hit the ground with a clatter, startling him out of his thoughts. Quickly, he scrubs a shaking hand over his face and tries to get his shit together because he needs to not be like this when Mary wakes up. He needs to at least be coherent when he has to tell her that Mom isn't coming home this time. He presses the palms of his hands into his sore, watery eyes and takes in a few much needed gulps of air._

 _He can still see her when he closes his eyes. Lying there in that hospital bed. She was so still, so pale and lifeless. It wasn't her. It wasn't right. Laurel had never been still in her life. She was a hurricane. She spun and whirled, swept through everything and everyone with this endless determination, this unimaginable grace. But she was motionless in that hospital bed, a graying body, an unmovable shell. It hadn't mattered to him. She was still his wife. She was just as pretty as the day they met, he loved her just as much as the day they got married, and he made a point of telling her that, even if she couldn't hear him. It had seemed important at the time. To tell her these things. He doesn't remember why. It was just a body._

 _He had sat beside her for hours. Begged the hospital staff for more time. Turned down the offer to talk to a grief counselor or a social worker. Shrugged off Cas and Sam's well-intentioned but irritating attempts to get him to leave. Like it was that easy. Like he could just get up and walk away from her when he knew he would never see her again. He did his best to memorize her. Her hands, her long fingers, her arms, her shoulders, her neck, her jaw, her cheekbones, her soft lips, her soft skin, her closed eyes, her hair. He had needed that time with her. Even if she never opened her eyes, he wanted those moments, those seconds._

 _If it meant he got to keep her, even an eerily still and pale version of her, he would have sat there for a lifetime. He held her hand, he kissed her skin, stroked her hair, felt her get colder and colder. He did that. Him. He sat in that silence, every part of him on fire and screaming with grief, waiting for her to open her eyes and tell him it was all a joke. He sat in that stillness for hours until they finally took her away from him and wouldn't let him go with her._

 _Her father hadn't even been able to give her ten minutes. Her mother hadn't even cared enough to make the damn trip._

 _Dean drops his head, flexes his numb fingers, and tries to work out if what he's feeling is anger, grief, or shock. He's thinking D) all of the above._

 _''Laurel,'' he had whispered. He must have said her name a thousand times. He hadn't known what else to say. ''Laurel. ...Laur, please.''_

 _''Dean.''_

 _The unexpected voice sends his heart rate skyrocketing and he lifts his head, stupidly hopeful. ''Laurel?''_

 _It's Charlie._

 _She's standing across the room in the doorway, silhouetted by the light spilling into the living room from the hallway. She looks sad. Her eyes are red and puffy and her lips are trembling. He's so out of it that he almost opens his mouth to ask her what's wrong or when she got there. He clamps his mouth shut pretty quickly when he remembers. She came into town for Laurel's birthday, and Laurel is dead. Instinctively, upon seeing her distress, he wants to fix her somehow. Wrap her up and protect her like he would with Mary or Thea, but he can't even make himself move._

 _There is a quiet moment where they both just stand there, looking at each other. The grief lying in between them is impossible to navigate. When you imagine these things happening, there are a million words that fill your head. Meaningless platitudes, all these different ways to say you're sorry for someone's loss, to be gracious, and a handful of cheesy, dumbass words to honor the dead. When you actually experience it, there are no words. There's just wailing and screaming and an incoherent string of bargaining and begging. You curse, you punch the drywall, you plead, but there are no words._

 _There is no way to properly apologize for the horror movie that is grief._

 _Dean breaks the silence, clearing his throat and muttering, ''She... She, uh...'' He trails off, feeling oddly winded. ''She didn't make it.''_

 _Charlie does not look particularly surprised by this. Devastated, yes. But not surprised. Sam must have called her. She doesn't waste a second, letting out a sob and sprinting across the room to get to him, nearly tripping on her own two feet before she collides with him and pulls him in for a hug. She's already crying, gulping into the crook of his neck, holding onto him for dear life. ''I'm sorry,'' she whimpers. Her hand is soft and warm against the nape of his neck. Selfishly, irrationally, he tries to imagine it's Laurel's hand, Laurel's arms holding him, Laurel's body against his but his brain won't even let him pretend. ''I'm so sorry, Dean,'' Charlie says again._

 _He doesn't know what he can possibly say to that. He winds his arms around her slowly and that's it. The numbness and shock evaporates and it's like this crushing wave of pain just overwhelms him and pulls him under. There is sunlight streaming into the room, through the gaps in the gauzy curtains, the windows in the dining room, and all he can think about is Laurel._

 _Laurel was a morning person. Obnoxiously so. Aside from her general exhausted grumpiness during pregnancy, she was always so cheerful in the mornings. She sang in the shower, she hummed while she made coffee, and shook her hips to the radio while she was buttering toast. Every morning, without fail, while Dean groaned and grumbled and Mary ran into the room and tried to hide under the covers with her dad for five more minutes, Laurel would poke her head into the bedroom with this infectious, dimpled smile on her face. ''Wake up, sleepyheads,'' she'd call out to them. ''The sun has to rise every morning, and so do you.''_

 _Dean will never hear her sing in the shower or hum some terrible 90's pop song in the kitchen, he'll never hear her yell out that she's going for her morning run, he'll never hear her say, in that sweet, light, happy voice, ''The sun has to rise every morning, and so do you.''_

 _He crumples, finally allowing a broken, strangled noise to escape his lips as he buries his head in Charlie's red hair._

 _Here is the truth, the real one this time: Death is never simple. As long as there's someone left behind to mourn, to feel the loss, to suffer, it will never be simple. Death takes and it takes and it takes, and it never stops. It steals your home. It leaves you ruined. It leaves you empty. Death is this._

 _And this is a drowning._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

She wakes up to darkness.

She opens her eyes to nothing at all, lips parting as she tries to breathe. She gasps and chokes but nothing makes it to her lungs. There's no air. Wherever this is, wherever she has woken up, there's no air here. She blinks and tries to move, still gasping and disoriented, but she can't. There's nowhere to go. She squirms desperately and reflexively tries to grab her throat but she can't even move her arms enough to reach her neck. _There's nowhere to go._

She doesn't know where she is.

Panic explodes in her chest, resulting in a muffled sob clawing its way out. Everything is blurry and hot and dark and the lack of oxygen is burning her lungs and making it hard to think. There's sweat beading on her forehead. She feels dizzy and like she might throw up but she doesn't even think she would be able to do that. Desperate for air, she gropes around as much as she possibly can in the small space until she finds the roof. It feels warm and soft, like fabric. There's something hard behind it that she needs to get to. She claws at the silky fabric until her nails finally manage to slice it enough for her to tear it away, exposing the hard wood behind it.

She bangs on the roof fruitlessly. She opens her mouth and tries to scream, to call out for help, but without oxygen and with the panic turning her gasps into hyperventilation, she can't make a sound. Something hot and wet rolls down her cheeks. Tears. She remembers tears. She can feel the lack of air getting to her, slowing her down. If she's in here, wherever here is, for much longer, she will pass out and she won't wake up again. Her body will shut down. She'll die without air. She doesn't know how she knows that given that she doesn't know much of anything at this moment, but she knows it's right. Her brain cannot be deprived of oxygen for this long. Somehow, through the panic and the gasping and the crying, she feels a welcome surge of adrenaline.

The body remembers how to survive.

She pounds and scratches and punches at the roof, harder this time, harder and harder until her nails are broken and bloody and her knuckles have split. Until something _cracks._ One more punch and a burst of pain as wood tears through her skin and suddenly there's cold dirt pouring onto her face. But where there's dirt, there's air. She lifts herself up and pulls herself through the dirt. It gets all in her hair. It gets in her mouth, her nose, her ears, until she's choking on it, drowning in earth. She doesn't care. Her body wants - needs - air. The only way to get to the air is through the dirt. She fights her way through the dirt and through the box she was trapped in. The sharp edges of it cut through her clothes, slice at her skin, catch and pull her hair out in clumps. The jagged pieces, the suffocating dirt - it all wants to make sure she leaves a piece of herself behind.

There are voices in her head as she struggles. Voices and laughter and pieces of images, and she knows them. She knows there is joy and sorrow in this life. She knows the man with the sharp smile, all teeth and eye crinkles, she knows what his hands feel like on her skin and what his voice sounds like in her ear, but she doesn't know his name or what he means. She knows the woman with the blond hair and the sad eyes and the dimpled chin, the woman with the dark hair, the red leather, the lively ear to ear grin. She just doesn't remember how she knows these voices, these people. Are these memories or things she wanted for herself?

There is a girl, too. A little girl with sandy hair and a gummy smile who talks with her hands and twirls in the backyard. And there is love. So much of it. She doesn't know what to do with this love either. She just knows it's everywhere inside of her, all for her, for the girl with the pretty smile and the green eyes.

It feels like she has to fight through the dirt forever. It feels like there's nothing else and this is where she will die, halfway between the dirt and the air. Finally, her hand breaks through the surface and she feels the cold air on her skin. She uses every last bit of strength left in her to push herself up through the crushing weight, the squeezing vice grip of the earth, and then she's free. She digs bloody hands into the grass, clawing with what's left of her fingernails, and she heaves herself out with a great amount of difficulty.

She collapses onto the damp grass, panting and trying to catch her breath as the world spins and lurches unpleasantly, sending her stomach recoiling and into her throat. She swallows it down. The chilly night air feels good on her feverish, sweaty skin but it doesn't do anything to alleviate the way the world won't stop moving around her. All she can smell is blood and dirt and wet grass. She blinks up at the night sky through unfocused eyes. Even with her blurred vision, she can tell that there are no stars tonight. The sky is gray and cloudy, threatening rain, and a chilly wind whips through the air.

She doesn't remember this. She remembers spring. It was spring the last time she was here. There was warmth in the air, the promise of summer, flowers were blooming. She was happy. She was _happy._ She gives herself a minute to allow the tears of relief and fear and unexplainable sadness roll down her cheeks, making marks in the dirt smeared on her face. She closes her eyes and she hears an echo of a child's voice.

 _Mary._

The little girl's name is Mary.

Before everything else, there is Mary. She remembers her before she remembers the man with the strong hands, before she remembers anything else about this world, before she even remembers her own name. She remembers Mary before she remembers the way home.

 _I'm a mother,_ she thinks. _I was a mother._

After a moment of trying to calm her racing heart, breathe, and gather herself together, she rolls over onto her stomach and pushes herself up onto her knees. She looks at her hands. She watches blood ooze out of her wounds and she sees the way her flesh is ripped, the way her fingernails are torn and bloody, but she can't feel it. She brings a hand to her stomach, smoothing the fabric of her ripped dress. It's a nice dress, she thinks. It's blue. This is blue, right? This color. Does she like blue? It's cold, though. It doesn't have sleeves.

Slowly, she rises to her unsteady feet. She's shaky and she feels like she might be too weak to stand but still, she rises. Her muscles aren't used to this whole standing thing. They haven't done it in awhile. She tries to shake it off, looking down at her blue dress, the long silver chain around her neck with the key shaped pendant, her torn pantyhose, her one shoe. She doesn't know where the other one went. It must not have made it out. She kicks it off and clutches the black pump to her chest.

She is wearing a blue dress. She loves a little girl named Mary who might be her daughter. There is a man with a sharp smile and deep, warm laughter who she thinks is waiting for her. It is not spring.

This is all she knows.

She tries to lick her cracked, dry lips. She must have a name. Everyone has a name. At least she thinks that's how it works. She lets the breeze ruffle her tangled hair for a minute and tries to make the cold wake her up a little. Jumpstart her brain. She pinches herself when that doesn't work. Digs what's left of her nails into her palms. She squeezes her eyes shut. She tries to _remember._

She remembers...

Canary.

She opens her eyes.

 _Canary,_ she thinks. Is that her name? Is that who she is? It sounds familiar. Like it means something. There's a stirring in her gut when she turns the word over in her head. She whirls around to look at the displaced earth and that's when her eyes find the stone marker. It stands still and resolute even in the cold weather, the wind that's picking up and howling through the trees, the rain that's staring to spit down on her. She squints her bleary eyes and takes a stumbling step forward to try and make out the words etched into the stone.

DINAH LAUREL LANCE  
1985 - 2016  
BELOVED MOTHER, WIFE, SISTER AND DAUGHTER  
ALIS VOLAT PROPRIIS

There is a small picture on the stone of a smiling young woman with green eyes who looks -

She startles, dropping the black pump and staggering back with a gasp, both hands flying to cover her mouth. That's her. That's her name, her face, her green eyes, her Latin inscription that she has tattooed on her back, her wedding picture. Her stomach recoils and her legs give out beneath her, sending her to her knees in the grass again.

This is her grave.

That slab of stone is her grave marker, her monument, her memorial. This is her final resting place - and she just _woke up._ There's something bubbling in her throat, climbing it's way out of her like a monster in a horror movie, and she is completely powerless to stop it. That's another thing she remembers. Being powerless.

In the Star City Memorial Cemetery, at half past midnight, Laurel Lance opens her mouth and screams.

.

.

.

When Dean opens his eyes, all he can see are the stars.

Specifically, the glow in the dark stars that he and Laurel put up when they first moved into this house when Mary was a year old. She hadn't cared about them then and she doesn't particularly care about them now, but they were important to Laurel. She had wanted to give their daughter the stars. He stares at those stars for a few moments, disoriented and sore from being cramped up in Mary's bed and then he snaps out of it. He glances over at Mary, burrowed under the blankets and sleeping peacefully with one hand over her face, the other fisted in his shirt. He releases a breath and takes the book off his chest, tossing it onto the bedside table before carefully working to extricate himself from her clutches. He rolls out of the bed slowly and by some strange miracle, she doesn't even stir.

He grimaces and rubs at his sore neck, idly wondering how she would do in a bigger bed. One that, preferably, he would be able to fit in comfortably without having to take an Advil every night for his aches and pains. He turns off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, and flicks on her tacky Minion night light that makes her giggle. Like every night, he waits a minute before he leaves the room. Just in case she wakes up and demands he stay with her. It's happened before. At least seven or eight times since April. For the first month and a half straight, she slept in his bed with him, often sneaking into the bedroom in the middle of the night. This is progress.

She doesn't wake up tonight and he doesn't know whether to be relieved or mildly disappointed. He leaves the door open a crack and dims the light in the hallway, leaving it on enough for her to be able to find her way to him if she needs him.

Before he heads to the kitchen to clean up the mess left over from dinner, he checks on Thea. He doesn't technically need to. She's not his kid. She's not even a kid at all. She's a grown woman. But she lives under his roof and he has considered her one of his since she showed up on their doorstep with red eyes and blotchy cheeks and told Laurel, ''He left me all alone again. I don't have anywhere else to go now.'' He knocks on the door softly and pokes his head in. She's nowhere to be found. The room is dark, the bed still unmade from this morning, her makeup still strewn out on top of it from earlier when she was sitting atop it trying to make herself look like a zombie to scare the trick or treaters. He shuts the door and checks his watch. It's one in the morning. Jesus, how long has he been asleep for?

Dean finds her in the living room, on the couch, right where he left her when he took Mary to bed. Except now she's fast asleep and surrounded by candy wrappers. _A lot_ of candy wrappers. She's had quite an adventurous night, apparently. Other than the television, which is casting a bluish light on everything as it plays the end credits of some movie, the room is dark. Dean perches on the coffee table and looks at Thea for a minute. Even in her sleep, she doesn't look peaceful. Younger, maybe - because it's easy to forget how young she is sometimes - but still troubled.

He runs a hand over his face, tired. He thinks about waking her up or even just scooping her up and taking her to bed, but he doesn't want to disturb her. He's not the only one who's had a hard day. She's run herself ragged over these past few days helping him with the party. He turns the TV off, grabs the blanket from the back of the couch, and drapes it over her sleeping form. He sweeps some of the wrappers from the table and heads into the kitchen.

There's a mess in there with his name on it. There's a mountain of dishes in the sink, dirty pots and pans, spots of tomato sauce on the stove, and leftover spaghetti and meatballs (Mary's favourite) sitting out. He gets as far as putting the leftovers away and wiping down the stove before he stops. There's a picture on the fridge from last Christmas. It's not like it's a new picture, it's been there for almost a year, but the sight of Laurel laughing, beautiful in her red dress, standing in front of the Christmas tree with Mary, hits harder than usual tonight.

God, he misses that girl.

Dean turns around, away from the picture and braces himself against the sink, staring down into the depths of the dirty dishes. It's November now. Tomorrow, he'll go to the grocery store and there will already be Christmas decorations and candy on display. It's the holiday season. The first one without her.

Thanksgiving might be okay to get through. Neither of their families celebrated it anyway. For Dean, it was one of the things that stopped when his mother died and his father decided revenge was more important than raising his kids. And according to Laurel, her mother thought it was wrong to celebrate such a heinous event, so they'd never had a big family dinner and instead she grew up with takeout and board games. Years ago, before Mary, he and Laurel had started their own tradition of going out of town for a couple of days every year, getting a nice hotel room, turning off their phones, and not leaving for the entire Thanksgiving weekend. Last year, they had taken Mary to an indoor waterpark for the first time ever and had spent their Thanksgiving evening in a hotel room, eating pizza. He thinks he can probably handle doing that alone this year. It's true that indoor waterparks are the worst places on earth but he can curb his annoyance for a few days for Mary.

It's Christmas that's going to be hell to get through.

When he lifts his head, he catches sight of his shadowy reflection in the window. He really didn't expect today to be as shitty as it was. He'd known it was going to be a rough day to get through because he's not a complete idiot, but he had mistakenly thought the party would be the most painful part. Which it was. It was painful. Having that birthday party without her was like a punch in the gut, but today has been something else entirely.

He can't stop thinking about the day Mary was born. Four years ago. 11:23 pm. She came into this world and they promised her they would never leave her. A lonely childhood had been one of Laurel's worst fears for her. They'd both had lonely childhoods. They knew how much those sucked. Now Mary is stuck with the loneliness and the ache of a dead mom, and he can't make that go away. And there's all these plans that they made. Things she wanted so badly to have, to be able to do, and now she doesn't get to do any of them.

Today was the first of a lot of birthdays she is going to miss and he can't change that. He can't give her back the birthdays, can't give Mary her mom. He tried. He would've burned the world down to bring her home if he could have, but he didn't. He failed. He failed _miserably._

Most days, the pain is at a constant seven. Sometimes more like eight. Today has been a ten. Today has been a twenty.

There were a lot of little Black Canaries out on the streets tonight. He hadn't expected that either. He should have. Why wouldn't there be? Even last Halloween, there had been a few. Laurel had been over the moon when she saw them. No shit there would be more this year after everything that's happened. Still, he startled every time he opened the door and there was a tiny version of her looking up at him. Every time he passed a Mini Canary on the street, he did a double take.

Every now and then, there would be a parent who startled right back. He'd watch their eyes widen as they slowly realized that they were looking at Mr. Canary, his face made recognizable by the local news station during the events that Oliver jumpstarted at her funeral. Only one person had said anything to him - and it hadn't even been a parent. It had been his neighbor.

The people next door, the Denton family, have always been kooky. Without a doubt, they're oddballs. They have also always been kind and welcoming. Ida, the grandmother, brought over at least three casseroles after Laurel died. The two college aged kids, David and Heather, are always offering to rake leaves or clean out his gutters or babysit Mary. Sylvia and Jim, the husband and wife, used to try and get Dean and Laurel over for dinner at least twice a month. Now they keep trying to get him and Mary to come over every weekend. It's all very Leave It to Beaver. Dean isn't great at that. He's not good at trusting that no strings attached kindness. He's not great with kindness in general. He's just never entirely sure what to do with it.

Laurel had loved it. Which made sense. She is - was - the kindest person he'd ever known. Of course she would gravitate towards other good people. (Dean still has no idea what the hell she was doing wasting her time with him.) She was the one who insisted that they go over to the Denton place for dinner every now and then, she baked them cookies at Christmas, said good morning to them every day when she left for work, somehow managed to find a sweet way to let them down easy when it came to babysitting, and always made sure they stopped by for a few minutes on Halloween while they were sitting out on their lawn like they did every year.

This year, when Dean and Mary had stopped by the Denton place, both of them hesitant without Laurel acting as buffer between them and the overly nice people, Sylvia had caught sight of him looking at a little Black Canary. ''Dean,'' she had said, taking him aside. ''Are you okay?''

''I'm fine,'' he'd said, unconvincingly.

Sylvia looked out at the children running around. ''Do you think she would have been offended by all this?'' She'd asked, gesturing towards a group of children dressed like the Star City vigilantes.

''Are you kidding?'' He'd managed a laugh. ''She would've _loved_ this.'' Way more than that statue.

''Oh,'' she'd seemed surprised, wringing her hands. ''I just worry it's insensitive.''

''Nah,'' he shook his head. ''She - She would've been honored.''

Sylvia smiled sadly and laid a hand on his arm. ''She was an amazing woman.''

He hadn't responded to that with: _more than you know_ or _she amazed me every day_. All he'd said was, ''She was,'' and hadn't been able to get anything else out.

Dean abruptly turns away from the window, leaning back against the sink and trying not to look at the pictures on the fridge. Today has been one of the bad days. There's no getting around that. It would be nice to be able to have a drink. He rubs at his tired eyes and stifles a yawn. Eh, fuck it. The dishes can wait until tomorrow. He fills up the pots with warm water to leave them soaking overnight, tosses the dish towel on the table, and abandons the messy kitchen. He needs to get some sleep tonight. He barely got any last night, brain stuck on the mind numbingly depressing image of his daughter kissing her mother's gravestone.

He should probably get Thea into her actual bed too. She has a hard enough time sleeping as it is. Can't imagine that old couch is the best thing for her back, especially considering she's already mentioned having a sore back from carrying Mary around all the time. Not to mention, she's been exhausted lately. They both have.

Another unavoidable hardship of currently having such a crap life.

Without Laurel's income, which was where most of their money came from, he's been struggling lately. There are medical bills from April that he's still trying to pay off, the cost of the funeral, Mary's preschool, not to mention all the standard things like electricity and water and food and the mortgage. He had been counting on the life insurance money to at least help with the funeral and the medical bills but after Oliver told the world about her secret identity without consulting anyone beforehand, the insurance company decided not to pay a cent.

 _She got herself killed,_ was basically what the cold letter they sent him said. _Here's some debt to go along with the choking grief._

There would have been even more bills to pay if Joanna hadn't staunchly refused his money over the past few months. All this time and she's still tied up in paperwork, fighting to save all of the cases that Laurel had worked on, trying to make sure the DA's office doesn't overturn any of the convictions like they keep threatening to do. She has made it her life's mission to protect Laurel's legacy and she's doing it all for free.

Meanwhile, Oliver and his band of misfits - the people Laurel considered her _family_ \- have created a half assed college fund for Mary, and Oliver wasted thousands of dollars on a statue that does nothing but erase Laurel from her own story and turn Black Canary into a martyr.

But then there's Thea...

Dean works full time now. He used to be a stay at home dad. Worked at a garage in the Glades usually during the holidays or whenever they needed extra money but mostly stayed home with Mary because that was their plan. He was going to quit entirely when they decided to try for another baby. That's what they both wanted. You don't always get what you want. He works full time now. There's no other option. He drops Mary off at preschool, stays long enough for her to stop crying because she hates it there, and goes into work. Occasionally he can take a late lunch to pick her up but most of the time, he comes home in the evening with grease stained hands and Mary's already tired and cranky and just wants dinner.

Thea, after announcing that she would no longer be putting on her leathers, wasted no time informing Dean that she was going to be Mary's nanny. Said she didn't want or need any money but she loved him and she loved Mary and she loved Laurel, so this was what she was going to do. So that's what she did and it's what she's still doing. She wakes up in the morning, works part time at the mayor's office as Chief of Staff (Dean's still not sure how you can have a part time Chief of Staff but it sounds like something that would happen in Star City), and then picks up Mary from preschool and spends the rest of the day as an unpaid nanny to a high needs little girl. Laurel would be proud of her. He knows he is.

That's where they are.

Dean has little to do with Team Arrow because he could not give less of a shit, other than Beatrice and Sara he's not overly fond of his in-laws (in his defense, they hate him way more than he hates them), most of Laurel's other friends steer clear of him because they don't know what to do with him now, but Thea is a bright spot in all of this crap. She's family. She deserves better, if he's being honest, but he's a selfish, selfish man and there's a part of him that hopes she never realizes that.

''Oh no,'' Thea's sleepy voice is mumbling when he walks back out into the darkened living room. She gropes around blindly for the remote control. ''Did I miss Beetlejuice?''

''Sorry, kiddo,'' he says, collapsing on the couch next to her. ''Holy crap.'' He pulls yet another handful of candy wrappers out from the couch cushions and throws them onto the table carelessly. ''How much candy did you actually eat?''

''I don't know,'' she says, ''a lot?'' She shrugs her shoulders. ''It's Halloween.''

''It's November 1st, technically.''

''By the time I fell asleep, I was like 90% sure I was going to puke,'' she deadpans. ''So that's how much candy I ate.'' She shakes her head and yawns. She scoots closer to him and shuffles some of the blanket over to him. ''You know, I once watched Laurel eat an entire bag of candy and it didn't even phase her. How did she do that?''

It forces a laugh out of him. ''She had a gift.''

''The gift of an iron stomach?''

''Exactly,'' he nods. ''I was awestruck the first time I witnessed her at an all you can eat brunch buffet.''

Thea snorts. ''I can imagine.''

''Except for when she was pregnant,'' he tacks on. ''She was sick for nine months when she was pregnant with Mary and she was so bitter about it. I remember the last few days, she had no appetite because she was so uncomfortable and she was so pissed she was missing out on the candy.''

''Really?''

''Gorging herself on half priced Halloween candy was her favourite tradition,'' he says lightly. ''The day after Mary was born, she made me go out and buy all the cheap candy I could get my hands on.''

''That sounds like Laurel,'' Thea muses, and he watches the smile on her face tilt from amused to sad. She shakes it off and pulls up Netflix. Instead of hauling her ass to bed, she searches through movies - presumably looking for Beetlejuice - and when she doesn't find it, her shoulders slump. ''I can't believe I missed Beetlejuice.''

''Really not that great of a movie, Thea.''

''How dare you,'' she says flatly. ''It's a classic.''

He throws her an odd look. ''What's with you and this movie?''

''It's tradition.''

''What tradition?''

She hesitates, staring at the TV for a minute and gnawing on her bottom lip before letting out a breath. ''I used to watch it with Ollie every year.'' She tries to smile, but it's bittersweet and doesn't quite make it to her tired eyes. ''I never got the trick or treating experience the way other kids did because my parents had this annual party that was really just an excuse for old rich people to schmooze and make business deals. Not the most exciting place for a kid. I usually spent the entire night restless and bored out of my skull in some elaborate costume my mom picked out. But every year, Ollie would sneak me out of the party and we'd lock ourselves in my room, eat a bunch of caramel popcorn balls, and watch Halloween movies. Beetlejuice was always the favourite. We'd wait all night for it to come on. Then when he got older and started partying more, I saw less and less of him, but he always made sure to watch Beetlejuice with me on Halloween. Sometimes Tommy was with us and I know I remember a few good years with Laurel, but mostly it was me and Ollie.'' She clears her throat, shifting uncomfortably. ''I loved those nights.''

Dean listens to her story in silence, and can't help but remember all of the holidays he spent with Sam, just the two of them. Different circumstances, he supposes, and he's sure that her memories must be happier than his. He still understands the way a sibling lives in the core of you, a piece of your heart walking around outside your body that you can't control. He looks at her carefully and thinks about the way she spent a lot of the evening looking at her phone and leaving her brother pointless voicemails where she'd say in this overly cheerful voice, ''Just checking in'' and then the smile would instantly vanish off her face the moment she hung up.

Oliver is not here right now. Oliver has not been here all night. Dean doesn't even think he's called. He narrows his eyes.

Fuck Oliver Queen, to be honest.

''So,'' he starts, ''the fact that I'm the one sitting here with you and not him means...?''

''Something came up,'' she says brusquely, pointedly lifting her chin and sticking her nose up in the air. ''He said we can watch it together tomorrow. He said that last year too,'' she mumbles. ''I wound up watching it with Laurel.''

He hums thoughtfully. It's late. It's after one in the morning and he has to wake up early to clean the kitchen - and apparently the living room too - before work. He should get some sleep. Except that this is Thea. She's been through too much bullshit and the brother she keeps adoring no matter what he does or doesn't do just keeps disappointing her, getting douchier and douchier with every passing day, burying himself in arrows while whoever the fuck _Ollie_ used to be bleeds out of him. And you know what? Screw that. If Oliver's not interested in being Thea's family, Dean will gladly step in. This is his thing. This is what he does. He was built for this. ''Hey, have you ever seen How to Get Away With Murder?''

Thea snaps her attention to him, confused. ''Have I - '' her brows furrow '' - what?''

''It's a show on - ''

''No, I know what it is,'' she says. ''Just...'' She tilts her head to the side. ''You watch How to Get Away With Murder?''

''So you _have_ seen it.''

''That's not what I - ''

''Laurel loved it,'' he admits. ''It's pulpy, ridiculous drama. She said it got her out of the real world for a little while. She liked the distraction.'' The corners of his lip tick up briefly. ''She got really invested in it. When there were inaccuracies with the law side of it, she'd be sitting there, shouting at the TV. She got sucked into the murder mysteries. And you know Laurel. She was a talker. She liked to analyze and have discussions about characters and motives. She liked to figure mysteries out.'' He clenches and unclenches his fist and thinks, rather suddenly, that this is the part where he'd normally go get a beer. Except he hasn't had a drink in over four years. He inhales and tries not to think about it. ''But I guess I'm not the kind of person to analyze a TV show.''

''I mean, I've listened to you rant about Star Trek for, like, half an hour before,'' she deadpans, ''but okay.''

''Star Trek is a classic,'' he responds, reflexively. ''But I see your point. Anyway.'' He stands and wanders over to the entertainment center and the bookshelf full of DVDs and Blu-Rays; an immense collection that Sara - who seems to forget she doesn't actually live here - is incredibly proud of. ''My _point_ ,'' he starts, ''is that if I could go back and listen to her ramble about the shows she liked or the books she read, I would do it in a heartbeat and I would be better.'' He starts picking through the DVD collection, searching for one in particular. ''I'd pay more attention. Join the conversation more instead of just throwing a ''you're right'' or ''I know, honey'' at her every now and then, you know?'' He looks over his shoulder briefly.

Thea is staring at him. The expression on her face can only be described as careful. Her lips are pinched and her eyes are narrowed slightly like she's waiting for him to break down. ''I really don't.''

''When someone you love cares about something, don't be a dick about it,'' he says. ''Doesn't matter how you feel about it.'' He plucks a plastic case from the collection and turns back around to face her. ''Your brother bailed. Luckily,'' he holds up the DVD and watches her eyes light up. ''You've still got me.''

''Oh my god!'' She springs to her feet, racing forward to snatch the movie from his hand. ''Beetlejuice! You own Beetlejuice?!''

''Sara owns Beetlejuice. I'm just holding it for her.''

She nods, staring down at the cover with this sweet, nostalgic smile on her face. ''That's what I used to say whenever Raisa would find my - '' She cuts herself off abruptly, clamping her mouth shut, and raises her head, looking sheepish. ''Uh, anyway.'' She brushes past him to get to the DVD player. ''Are you sure you're up for a late night viewing?''

Not really. ''Hey, I am if you are,'' he says, careful to keep his tone light and jovial. He flops back down on the couch and yawns into his hand.

He notices the look on her face, the relief that she has managed to put off sleep and the inevitable nightmares for a little while longer, but he doesn't comment on it. It would be too hypocritical. He's the one who leaves messes in the kitchen every night for the sole purpose of having something to do other than sleep after everyone has gone to bed and the house is dark and quiet and still and he's trying to avoid the nightmares - _memories_ \- of Laurel in that hospital bed, lifeless, eyes open and sightless, lips parted from when they tried to give her oxygen, the heavy, deafening sound of a flatline echoing in his ears.

Once she's put the movie in and settled back down on the couch, she turns to look at him and says, ''We're just gonna blow past your Trekkie tendencies then?''

''That's the plan, yes.''

''Gotcha.''

When he catches sight of her pulling a candy bar out of the pocket of her shirt like that is a completely normal thing to do, he reaches over to catch her hand before she can peel away the wrapping. ''Uh, maybe lay off the candy,'' he says, not unkindly. ''I don't want a Mr. Creosote situation happening in my living room. Just because I'm good at cleaning up vomit doesn't mean I want to.''

''Hmm,'' she weighs her options. ''You have a point there. I think I can already feel cavities forming.'' She tosses the candy bar back in the bowl. ''By the way, be a good dad and remind me to brush my teeth before I go to bed.''

''Please don't refer to me as your dad. I'm not that old.''

''Actually, if you'd had me when you were like sixteen-ish - ''

''All right, all right,'' he grumbles, folding his arms, ''just play the movie.''

She laughs but does as she's told. When the movie starts playing, she turns her focus to the movie. He keeps his eyes on her for a minute longer, watching the light of the television cast shadows on her face.

It's hard not to wonder, sometimes, how much of an influence Laurel had on Thea. What part of Thea's wisdom and goodness is hers and hers alone and which parts did she learn from Laurel? Dean can look at Mary and see Laurel in her so clearly. Anyone can look at Mary and see her mother. It's a given. But sometimes Thea will smile a certain way or say something that Laurel would have said and he'll wonder just how much of herself Laurel left behind in Thea, not because of blood but because of love. Someone like Laurel leaves a mark on the world, on the people who loved her. Nobody understands that better than him and the scars she left on his heart.

He looks away from her and tries to concentrate on the movie. He tries to pretend that he's paying attention, that he knows what's happening on the screen, and that he's not just sitting there, trying to picture Laurel in his head. It's starting to grate on him that the image of her smile that he carries around with him is starting to blur. He's losing her face the way he's lost his mother's. He'll never admit it out loud but he's terrified of what comes next. He's not that young anymore - he has never been more aware of that - but he's young enough that he's going to have to suffer for a long time before he sees her again. He's not prepared for that. He brushes his thumb over his wedding band. He watches the movie.

Thea lasts roughly twenty minutes before he notices her eyelids are starting to droop and another ten after that before her head drops onto his shoulder and she's out completely. In theory, if he gives it a few more minutes until she's dead asleep, he'd probably be able to pick her up and get her into her own bed without waking her. But, meh, this is good too.

He takes the remote from her limp hands, turns the volume down, and manages to grab the half empty candy bowl from the table without jostling her too much. He roots through the bowl that is mostly full of Almond Joys and Dots. Ugh. This is what happens when you let Sam buy the Halloween candy. He and Sara are the only people he's ever met who actually like Almond Joys and Dots. He's going to wind up sending Sara back to her spaceship or whatever the hell that thing is with a sack lunch full of _fucking Dots_. ''Ha, finally.'' He pulls a single Kit Kat from the bowl. Not exactly a Peanut Butter Cup or a Twix bar but it'll do in a pinch. He'd also prefer Good  & Plenty's but nobody's ever willing to buy him any of those because apparently they're ''the worst, Dean'' and ''we can't subject kids to that 'cause it's mean.''

Just as he's fumbling with the wrapper, courageously trying not to move his left shoulder where Thea is sleeping, there is a knock on the door. Except it's not a knock. It's a bang. There is a noticeable difference between someone knocking on a door with a closed fist and someone banging on it. He tenses. Instinct tells him that a pounding on the door at almost two in the morning could be dangerous and his girls are sleeping in this house.

''Little late for trick or treaters,'' Thea mumbles groggily, lifting her head.

He drops the Kit Kat back into the bowl and puts the bowl on the table. ''Stay here,'' he orders shortly, rising to his feet. It's probably nothing. Maybe it's Oliver coming to watch the movie with his sister, or Cas has forgotten the time again. Probably nothing.

Dean opens the door -

\- and the whole world changes.

It spins and shifts on its axis. There is a moment, just one little second, where he thinks he must be dead. His grief has finally killed him. This must be what happens after. This must be what coming home feels like. Or maybe this is a hallucination. His misery riddled brain trying to give him something to hold onto. That's been happening for months. But... She's not wearing her wedding dress. The flashes he gets of her are of her in her wedding dress or her Black Canary suit or that hospital gown. That's the cold comfort his brain conjures up.

This is something else. This woman standing here, half destroyed and trembling, is real. She's real. Underneath all of the dirt and the gore, the rat's nest of tangled hair, those eyes are still the same. Wild and frightened but still _hers._ He knows those eyes. He's waited for those eyes.

The terrified look in her eyes doesn't soften as she looks at him, staring at him like she doesn't recognize him. ''Did I,'' her voice is hoarse and barely audible. ''I think I lived here,'' she says, and looks up at him with this disturbingly, uncharacteristically despairing look on her face. ''Do you know? Can you help me?''

He can't answer that. He physically cannot answer that. He stares, unable to move or speak, barely able to breathe. _It's a trick_ , a voice in the back of his head says. _She's not real. It's not her._

The grief says, _Who cares?_

''Oh my god.'' Thea's shaky voice catches him off guard and he turns to face her, watching as her eyes fill with tears. ''Oh my god,'' she chokes out again, both hands flying to her mouth. She takes an unsteady step towards the woman in the doorway, hands falling limply to her sides. ''Laurel?''

.

.

.

 **September, 2012**

 _''Okay, here you go. One hot dog from this specific bodega across from this specific park with sauerkraut, nacho cheese, and extra mustard.'' Dean hands the disgusting, oddly shriveled looking hot dog to Laurel, who accepts it and instantly peels away some of the foil wrapping to inspect it critically. ''Better?''_

 _She looks up briefly. ''Well,'' she says, and at this point he thinks she might be purposefully trying to look grouchy. ''I'm still super uncomfortable because you just had to go and get me pregnant - ''_

 _''I'm like 95% sure you were there too.''_

 _'' - And I still feel sweaty and gross and I look like a whale - ''_

 _''You don't look like a whale.''_

 _'' - And there is a foot jammed into my ribs. But yes.'' Finally, a smile. ''This is better.''_

 _His lips twitch and he rests his hands on his hips, watching her as she digs into the hot dog. All of the grumpiness he had felt earlier when she dragged him out of the comfort of his own bed because she just ''needed'' a hot dog and a milkshake has disappeared. All he's left with now is an exhausted fondness. Possibly some mild nausea. Even he doesn't have a strong enough stomach for that hot dog. ''Sooo,'' he drags out the word. ''Can we go home now?''_

 _She looks up at him incredulously, which he thinks is an unfounded reaction to his question. ''What if I'm still hungry after I finish this?''_

 _''Babe, it's three in the morning.''_

 _''Dean,'' she says, and lowers the hot dog. It's far more terrifying than it should be. ''I kinda feel like I'm doing a lot for us right now, so if you could just humor me for a bit that would be great.'' She follows this declaration up with a glare that sends chills down his spine. Hands down scarier than Dick Roman and Lucifer combined._

 _He takes a seat on the musty blanket she pulled out of the trunk of the Impala and falls back, closing his eyes. He would much rather be at home and not in some shady looking park but she raises a valid point. She is, in fact, doing a lot for them right now. He'd probably do whatever she asked. Actually, he's not going to lie. There's a big chance he'd do anything she asked, pregnant or not._

 _''This is nice,'' she declares, after a minute._

 _He opens one eye to look at her. She's sitting comfortably on the blanket with her hot dog and her milkshake, hair disheveled, wearing sweatpants and one of his old, worn out t-shirts. She is also glowing, the starlight bouncing off of her makeup free, soft looking skin. She looks gorgeous. She always looks gorgeous, will always be the most beautiful woman in any room to him, but she looks happy right now. She's smiling and looking downright giddy about that nasty hot dog. It's a nice change._

 _It's not that she's been unhappy lately, but this pregnancy is definitely taking a toll on her both mentally and physically. She and the baby are healthy as can be, both her doctor and her midwife say so, but she is in constant physical discomfort and she's still got a few more weeks to go. She goes through her normal life, keeps working, goes to prenatal yoga twice a week, but if she's not working or at yoga or letting Tommy drag her out to lunch, she spends most of her time sleeping. She has also - and Dean will never ever ever say this out loud to anyone ever - gained a fair amount of weight. Her midwife isn't that concerned about it because Laurel's healthy, she was tiny before pregnancy, and she does make a conscious effort to work out and eat healthy - tonight's craving not withstanding - but he's seen what it's done to her self-confidence. It doesn't help that her father insists on greeting her with an excited and well meaning but super fucking blunt, ''Wow, look how big you're getting'' every Sunday night at dinner._

 _For someone who can normally shake off pain and physical discomfort, being sick and sore all the time is misery. For someone as stubborn, headstrong, and self-sufficient as she is, the loss of control and having to rely so heavily on others is humiliating. She complains about it all the time. There has been a lot of tears. Bottom line: Laurel is not someone who enjoys being pregnant. In fact, she hates it._

 _So it's a huge relief to see her smile like this again, so free and genuine. ''You think?'' He wipes a spot of mustard off the corner of her mouth with his thumb._

 _''Sure,'' she smiles. ''I mean, okay, I'll admit I'm worried this might be a waste of money considering there's a big chance it'll come back up later. But it's a nice night, the stars are out, I've got a milkshake, and I'm with you.''_

 _''You're a cheesy romantic,'' he murmurs, tossing her a lopsided grin._

 _She scoffs. ''You're one to talk.''_

 _He doesn't bother to argue. Dean is a lot of things he never thought he'd get the chance to be. He closes his eyes again, restful but not asleep, one hand resting on her warm thigh comfortably. She doesn't say anything for a few minutes and neither does he. In his half asleep state, he has this strange moment of clarity where he realizes, all at once, that this is what luck must feel like. The screwed up universe they live in has spent three decades trying to kill him. Somehow, he still ended up here, and this is a damn good place to be._

 _This is a privilege, he knows. To be able to exist in the same time and space as Dinah Laurel Lance. To live out your life next to her. This life he's living now is something he had given up on a long time ago. Somebody up there must have made a huge mistake for him to end up here, but fuck it. He ain't complaining._

 _''Hey,'' her soft voice breaks through the hush. He opens his eyes. ''You know those glow in the dark stars that people put on their kids' ceilings?''_

 _He props himself up on his elbows and watches her crumple up the foil wrapper. ''Yeah.''_

 _''Do you think when she gets here,'' she fixes her shirt over her expanding belly, ''we could put those on her ceiling?''_

 _''I think that can be arranged,'' he says. She nods but doesn't say anything, chewing on her straw - a nervous habit of hers. He sits up fully and gently nudges her shoulder with his. ''Laur.''_

 _''Have I ever told you about the astronomy phase I went through in 1995?''_

 _''No. Have I ever told you about the 1995 Lollapalooza? Because that shit was insane.''_

 _She gives him a flat look. ''I get it. You're older than me.''_

 _He holds his hands up. ''Sorry. Continue.''_

 _''When I was nine,'' she begins, and then almost immediately pauses, tilting her head to the side. ''Wait, weren't you like fifteen in 1995?''_

 _He shrugs._

 _She eyes him strangely and then moves on. ''When I was nine,'' she begins again, putting the milkshake down. ''I went on a class trip to the local observatory.'' She maneuvers herself between his legs, resting her back against him. It's not the most comfortable position for him because there's something poking him in the back and the tree he has to lean against is sticky with sap but - you know. She's growing a human so he'd probably stand on his head if she asked him to. ''I thought it was amazing,'' she tells him. ''So I decided I wanted to become an astronomer.''_

 _''I can see that,'' he muses._

 _''Really?'' She wrinkles her nose. ''I can't. It was a phase. Lasted a few months and then I moved on.'' She shrugs. ''At the time, I loved it. I got a telescope for Christmas, I dragged my dad out of the house at night to look at the stars, and my grandmother taught me all about the constellations.''_

 _''Drake or Lance?''_

 _''Drake, of course.''_

 _Right. Stupid question. ''I guess that explains why Bea calls you Star, huh?''_

 _''I can't believe I haven't told you this before,'' she says, casually lacing their fingers together. ''During the height of my phase, she came into my room one day with this grocery bag full of those stars and we spent hours putting them all over my ceiling in the shape of the constellations.'' That definitely sounds like something Beatrice Drake would do. ''I know that they're just cheap plastic things,'' she says softly, ''but I loved those stars. It wasn't even just about the astronomy. I...'' She trails off, tensing in his arms slightly. ''My parents got married and had kids young. My mom was still at college, my dad was at the academy, and we struggled a lot with money. I love them,'' she says, firmly. ''I do. But there were a lot of years where they weren't really around because they were both working their asses off to be able to afford food and to get their careers off the ground. There were a lot of nights where nobody tucked me in at night. I was a lonely kid until I met Tommy and Oliver.''_

 _Dean doesn't know what to say to make that better, so he doesn't say a word. He knows about her childhood. It's not something she enjoys talking about but she does talk about it. She's shared bits and pieces over the years. He knows she and Sara used to share a bed in a crappy apartment in the Glades until she was five when they moved in with her grandparents. He knows that the six years she spent living with her grandparents were what solidified her close relationship with Beatrice and Richard. But she has a tendency to only share the good memories and just gloss over the bad ones or assure him that ''oh, it wasn't really that bad.'' That's never shocked him. She's a lot like him, and there's a lot of bad things about his childhood that he hasn't shared with her._

 _''But when I looked at those plastic stars,'' she says, ''I was never alone. There was a whole galaxy with me. Grandma gave me that. I guess I always imagined that if I ever had a daughter, I'd give her the stars too.'' She tilts her head back to look at him. ''Does that sound stupid?''_

 _''No.'' He swallows thickly. ''No, it's not - It doesn't sound stupid. We're going to give her the stars,'' he tells her. ''We're going to give her the whole damn world.''_

 _She sits up abruptly, with some difficulty, moving away from him to the other side of the blanket. ''Dean.'' She sinks her teeth into her lower lip. ''Do you...think we made the right choice here?'' She asks, waving a hand at her stomach. ''I just, um,'' she frowns deeply. ''Do you think we'll be good at this?''_

 _Yet another question he can't answer._

 _Laurel is amazing with kids. She is all kindness and warmth, full of natural maternal instincts and this incredible love that just streams out of her. And hey - he likes kids too. Kids are great. Way better than adults. Sometimes he thinks he knows how to talk to kids better than he knows how to talk to adults. These are things he knows. He also knows that he and Laurel are two living, breathing disasters made of sharp edges, volatile tempers, and broken pieces. A long time ago, the world tore them apart in different but equally permanent ways and just because they managed to somehow stagger and crawl their way to each other doesn't mean they're better. They both work too much, drink too much, their financial situation is precarious at best, and there is a fucked up amount of evil in the world that a kid shouldn't have to see._

 _But it's too late to change their minds now. They've got a little girl cooking away, ready to meet them in a few weeks, and they were the ones who made the decision to bring her here. They're the ones who want her. Whether it was the right choice or not, it's happening. ''I think all we can do is our best,'' he tells her. ''Sound familiar?''_

 _''Sounds like a line from a Hallmark movie,'' she grumbles._

 _''Honey,'' he smirks, ''you said that.''_

 _She throws her arms up in the air. ''Well, I don't know what I'm talking about half the time! I'm way too optimistic!''_

 _Dean laughs, even though he probably shouldn't. He curls his hand around the back of her neck and leans in close to her so he can rest his forehead against hers. ''Don't you dare change that,'' he whispers._

 _She exhales and brings her hands up to his face. She doesn't seem that keen on moving. He gives her a minute, listening to her breathe, and then she draws away from him. She grabs his hand and places it on her stomach so he can feel the baby kick. Which, by the way, is still weird. Amazing, but weird. He can't imagine what it's like for Laurel. There's a lot of things regarding this situation that he can't imagine what it's like for her. He's terrified, sure, but he can get away from it occasionally. His mind can wander. He can go out and get groceries or pick up dinner and forget, for a second, the paralyzing fear. She can never be removed from this. Her emotions are 24/7. No wonder she's freaking out._

 _''We'll figure this out,'' he tries, ''okay? We always do.''_

 _She nods again, sniffling and rubbing at her eyes. ''I just don't want her to be lonely,'' she admits. ''We were so lonely, Dean. I don't want her to feel that.''_

 _''She won't.'' It's not a promise he can make. It's not a promise anyone can make. He's going to make it anyway. ''I can't - I can't tell you that we'll be the world's greatest parents or that we'll know what to do as soon as she gets here but we're not... We won't leave her. She's going to have all these school plays and bake sales and birthday parties and we're going to be there for all of it.''_

 _She smiles. It's still not as bright as he'd like it to be and he can still see the worry in her eyes but it's a start. It's all he can do. ''She's going to have great birthdays,'' she says, firmly, like she's decided on something important._

 _''Listen, Laur,'' he starts. ''We may be messes but whatever we need to do for her, we'll do it, won't we? We'll give her everything we can give her.''_

 _''I know.'' She looks down and a curtain of hair blocks her face from view. ''We'll give her everything we can give her,'' she echoes. ''We'll do what we can. I just hope it'll be enough. I hope she'll be happy. I really,'' she licks her lips. ''I really want to be here for her for the birthday parties and the school plays. I want to be here for all of it.''_

 _''And I promise you will be,'' he says, leaning in to kiss her temple. ''We both will. Because we can be. I'm a civilian now. You're a lawyer. We're...'' He pauses, trying to choke out the word. ''We're normal.'' It feels strange to say that out loud. It feels even stranger to mean it. ''Whatever else comes, at least we can give her that, right?''_

 _''We are normal, aren't we?'' She whispers, and he watches her smile brighten. She laughs and raises her head, pushing her hair out of her face. ''Isn't that strange?''_

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

This is not normal.

His dead wife is currently dripping blood all over his hardwood floors, breathing and alive and streaked with dirt. Believe it or not, this is not the weirdest thing that has ever happened to Dean. It's just been a long time since he's been faced with something like this.

It _is_ her. That's clear to him even before she passes all the tests. It's in her eyes. Even the vacant, traumatized look can't take her away.

No one can be Dinah Laurel Lance but Dinah Laurel Lance.

She doesn't say a word as he runs through all of the tests, all of the things that he is supposed to do - holy water, silver, Borax, everything he can think of. She just stands there, looking around the house, eyes lingering on the pictures like she's searching for answers. Thea sobs and hugs her, clinging to her, afraid to let go, and Laurel lets her but she doesn't move. She doesn't hug her back and aside from a split second cloud of confusion as if she doesn't quite remember what a hug looks like, her expression never changes. She blinks slowly and listens to the girl she left behind sob and thank God and she is still completely emotionless and still.

It's eerie.

She doesn't have any answers for them either. She keeps repeating the same choppy, slurred sentences over and over again.

Thea asks her what happened to her hands.

Laurel looks at her bloody hands, clenches them into fists, and holds them to her chest protectively like she's afraid they're going to take her hands from her. ''I don't know.''

Thea asks her what she remembers.

Laurel says, ''I don't know. I woke up.''

Thea asks her if she's in pain.

Laurel's voice catches - the first bit of real emotion they've gotten out of her - as she says, ''I don't know. Can I - Can I have some water?''

While Thea scurries off to get a glass of water, Dean asks her, quietly and very carefully, without touching her, ''Do you know who I am?''

She looks at him for a long time. ''You...'' She swallows and tries to lick her lips but her mouth is too dry. A little sip of holy water didn't help anything and her voice still sounds scratchy and hoarse. Months of decaying doesn't exactly give you a lot of time to use your voice. ''Dean,'' she says, and his breath leaves him in this dizzying, relieved whoosh. There is no real recognition in her eyes when she says his name but she digs it out of her dry throat with confidence, and that will have to be enough.

He says her name once, just once, because it's all he can get out. ''Laurel.'' It is the first time in seven months that he has surfaced for breath.

''Here you go.'' Thea approaches Laurel cautiously to hand her the glass of water. Laurel doesn't move to take it. She looks at the water. She looks at her shaking, wrecked hands. She looks...helpless.

Instantly, at the sight of the anxiety skittering across her face, he somehow manages to pull himself together and step into her space. ''It's okay,'' he offers her what he hopes is an encouraging smile and leans over to take the glass from Thea, whispering for her to go get a straw. ''Let's sit down, sweetheart.'' Gingerly, he leads her over to the couch and helps her collapse onto the cushions. She looks relieved to be off of her bare feet, exhaling sharply. He doesn't speak as he takes a seat next to her, brushes hair away from her neck, and helps her gulp down some of the water, holding the glass to her lips.

''Thank you,'' she whispers.

He wipes a drop of water off of her chin with his thumb and nods because he doesn't trust himself to speak.

She looks at him and he watches her eyes rake over him, taking in his face, his body, those eyes piercing through him. It's a familiar feeling. He hasn't felt it in such a long time. She catches sight of his wedding ring and then looks up and meets his eyes. ''I loved you,'' she says, abruptly. It isn't a question.

He swallows. ''You did.''

''Did you love me?''

Dean has to fight against the rock in his throat to get out the words, ''Every second.''

She frowns, which isn't the reaction he had been hoping for, and tilts her head to the side. Her mouth works silently for a brief moment before she whispers, somewhat raggedly, ''Do you still?'' This completely demolished, terrified look passes across her face. ''Have I been gone too long?''

Before he can answer, before he can tell her that she could have been gone for twenty years and he would still love her, Thea comes rushing back into the room. Her eyes are noticeably red and watery. She pops the straw into the glass and steps back. She doesn't take her eyes off of Laurel. ''Um,'' she clears her throat and wipes at her eyes with her sleeves. ''Maybe - Maybe we should get you cleaned up,'' she suggests. ''You're hurt.''

Laurel, who had been watching Thea carefully, swiftly cuts her eyes to Dean. He tries to smile for her. ''That sounds like a good idea,'' he says quietly. ''We'll get you in a nice, hot shower and we'll take care of your hands. You'll feel better. Sound okay?''

She winds her arms around herself, hesitant, and then she nods. ''Okay.''

.

.

.

Dean doesn't call Sam. He doesn't call Cas. He doesn't even call Quentin or Sara, who, by now, is probably wide awake and doing her insomnia crunches. Because that's a thing she does. It's reminiscent of when Sara was dead. Dean would wake up in the middle of the night and find a note from Laurel telling him she was at Ted's gym, or with Nyssa, or he'd find her in the living room, doing yoga.

The Lance sisters are never at peace when one of them is missing from the world. You learn that very quickly when you step into their world. He can understand that better than most people.

Still, he doesn't call Sara.

In his defense, he's out of it right now. He can't make his brain work the way he knows it should. In the back of his head, where there is logic and reason, he knows that this is a fucked up situation to be in. He knows that this could be a trick. Maybe it's not her. Or worse, maybe it is her but she's...wrong. What if this amnesia isn't shock induced? What if she just doesn't remember her life? What if she doesn't have a soul? She could be dangerous. Whether he wants to admit that or not, it's a frustratingly real possibility and Mary is sleeping right down the hall. Logic and reason dictate a call for back up.

Logic and reason have no place in the half crazed heart of a man who has spent the past half a year stumbling through a miserable life. For seven months, half of him was gone and he was stuck here, splintering apart at the seams. And now she's right here. Her skin is cold but warming under his hands and her pulse is strong and steady, her vacant eyes boring into him as he helps her out of her ruined dress.

He is the one who guides Laurel into the bathroom while Thea runs off to get some clean towels and Laurel's fluffy purple robe that she loved so much. Other than flinching slightly when he turns on the harshly bright lights, Laurel doesn't say a word. When he turns the light on and he gets his first good look at her, his stomach turns. She doesn't look like her in this light. She looks so small and deflated. Her pale skin is smudged with dirt and blood, her hair is a tangled mess, and she is hurt bad. He realizes this pretty quickly. It's not just her hands or her bare feet. It's all of her. There is blood staining her dress, cuts and scratches littering her exposed skin. He's sure there's more under her clothes. None of them look deep enough to need stitches but they'll need to be cleaned and they must hurt. Her hands look _awful_. They're torn up and bleeding, bruised and raw, and they look like they hurt like hell.

He has this weird out of body experience for half a minute where he looks at her and, briefly, all he can think is that she's going to be so pissed about her hair when she's back to herself. When she was... Before... She never had a hair out of place. She would hate this rat's nest thing she's got going on.

There is no sign that she can feel any of these injuries. It's jarring. He knows she's in shock and most likely she genuinely doesn't feel the pain yet but it's disconcerting to watch her drip blood on the white tile and not react whatsoever. Her compliance is also startling. She just stands there, staring blankly while he takes off that beloved key necklace and undresses her. He keeps asking her, before every touch, if this is okay, if she's uncomfortable, if she'd rather have Thea help her, but she never verbally responds. She nods or shakes her head but she never actually uses her voice. The lack of clear consent makes his skin crawl.

It's strange. They are married, after all. It's not like he's never seen her naked or vulnerable. It's not even like he's never seen her in shock before. They have been through a lot of shit together. After the earthquake, after Tommy, when they finally made it home, she was so out of it - both because of the shock and because of the Xanax - that she couldn't shower by herself for two days. They've been through the stomach flu, food poisoning, alcohol withdrawal, emotional breakdowns and breakthroughs, the bad reaction he had to the flu shot a few years ago, her crappy pregnancy, parenthood. He's watched her go through weeks of prodromal labor, sixteen hours of active labor, and close to three hours of pushing like a fucking champ. There is no mystery left in their relationship.

But this - this is something different. This is uncharted territory.

''Oh!'' Thea's startled yelp breaks through the silence of the room and Dean turns his head just long enough to catch the stricken look on her face at the sight of Laurel standing there in her underwear, covered in wounds. She tears her eyes away quickly. ''I got the towels.'' She clutches the towels and robe to her chest. ''I - I warmed them up in the dryer.''

''Thea,'' he sighs. ''Maybe you should wait outside.''

''What?'' She shakes her head. ''No. I'm - I want to help.''

He doesn't bother arguing. He looks back at Laurel. She's still standing there, staring down at her ruined knuckles, flexing her hands. It's not often Dean thinks about September 18th. He tries hard not to think about the stifling panic he felt when he woke up in a box underground, the scent of death filling his nostrils, following after him for days, even after he clawed his way out, even after he scrubbed and scrubbed. It's hard not to remember that now.

Nobody talks much as they set about cleaning Laurel up. Thea looks pale and frightened but she's determined and focused. Laurel jumps when they turn on the shower, but she does step into the water. That is where the easiness ends. She panics under the hot spray and winds up curled in a ball on the floor, shaking and gasping, and Dean is suddenly forced to remember how heart poundingly horrifyingly traumatizing it is to come back from the dead right where they left you. It's a trauma that stays.

You can't shower because the water raining down on you reminds you too much of the dirt pouring into your eyes and your mouth and your nose. You sleep with the lights on because darkness takes you back to waking up to the nothingness of your grave. You can't even close your eyes without being right back there in the dirt, swallowing dirt and crawling through maggots and earthworms, using every ounce of strength to push through the earth that wants nothing more than to keep you. And nobody understands. Nobody gets your trauma, your pain, because this doesn't happen. People don't get up out of their graves. Once you're in there, you're in there. There's a reason why 'pulling a Buffy' isn't a common phrase.

He never wanted this for Laurel. He never wanted her to know what this is like.

Dean pulls her out of the water as soon as he realizes what's happening. She is shaking and gasping, choking on dirt that isn't there. He winds up soaked and trying to avoid her flailing fists because she tries to fight him when he grabs her, perhaps a little too quickly and harshly. He manages to awkwardly lift her up and out while Thea practically dives to turn off the water. When she sinks to the ground, making this frightening gasping noise, he goes with her, wrapping her up in a towel. He kneels in front of her and tries to figure out if he should be touching her right now. After Tommy died, Laurel's panic attacks got worse than they had ever been and she always wanted him to hold her hand. She said it anchored her. He can't do that right now. Her hands are too damaged to hold. He doesn't even know if she'd want him to.

''Laurel,'' he tries. ''Sweetheart, I need you to listen to my voice. I know it's hard but try to hear me. You're not back under. You got yourself out. Okay? You got yourself out. You're safe. You're home, baby.''

Still trembling, she lifts her eyes to him. She looks around the bathroom with her wild eyes and then blinks. ''I-I'm sorry.''

''Don't be sorry,'' Thea says. ''You have nothing to be sorry for.''

''She's right,'' Dean says. ''Honey, you're doing such a good job right now. You're a badass.''

Her eyes fill with tears. She looks down at her hands once more, studying them intently, turning them over to stare at her palms. ''I-I pulled myself out.'' It comes out in this weak, shaky slur, like she's struggling just to force the words out. ''I pulled myself out of my own grave.''

''You - '' He presses his lips together. He tries not to think too much about it. ''I know. Sucks, doesn't it?'' He risks a glance at Thea. She's a little green looking and he thinks she might be regretting staying, but she just silently starts to draw a bath. Laurel startles when the water turns on and then squeezes her eyes shut. She takes in a few deep breaths that end in whimpers, and it just breaks his heart. Even the all consuming relief he feels at being able to hold her and feel her pulse can't quite take away the pain of seeing her like this.

''It hurts,'' she chokes out.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out she's not talking about her hands. ''It won't always,'' he lies.

The bath goes better than the shower. She flinches when hot water and soap gets into some of the deeper cuts and they have to change the bathwater twice because of all of the grime, but she doesn't freak out. Dean doesn't end up being a lot of help because she clings to his hand with both of hers, smearing blood on him, chipped and broken nails digging into his skin as the look on her face flickers between frightened and pained. It actually reminds him of a very specific part of her labor with Mary. She was in the thick of it, in the bathtub in their old apartment, moaning and crying and begging for someone to help her, and he couldn't help her. All he could do was tell her how amazing and strong she was. It hadn't felt like enough. He couldn't take her pain away then and he can't take it away now. She does seem more receptive to his encouraging words, however.

When she was laboring, her response to his encouraging, _You're doing great, babe_ had been a vitriolic, _Fuck off, I know!_

Tonight, when she cries out in pain when Thea presses a little too hard on a particularly jagged and tender cut on her shoulder and he instructs her to breathe through it and tells her, just like he did then, ''You're doing great, babe,'' she just squeezes her eyes shut and listens to him. It's unnerving to see her so submissive, lacking her trademark fire and sass.

Thea is the one who does most of the actual work. She sponges off dirt, cleans wounds, shampoos and conditions her hair. It might be better this way. Thea has softer, gentler hands and she knows how to work most of the tangles out of Laurel's thick hair without hurting her too much. Dean can't even give Mary a proper braid, no matter how many YouTube tutorials he watches.

Once Laurel is clean, they help her out of the bathtub and dry her off while she, again, mostly just stands there. Discreetly, Dean checks for a handprint or a mark, any sign to let him know how this is happening, how she's here. There is no handprint and all of the scars and tattoos that made her Laurel are still there. The scar between her thumb and forefinger from when she had tried to make him a big birthday dinner during their second year together, the silver strip of flesh on her knee from when she was four and tried to fly, various scars from her Black Canary days that she always thought of as mission reports, even the scars from the arrow and the surgery on that last day.

She's still got her anti possession tattoo on her hip, the stars on her foot that matches the ones Sara had, and the tattoo of the caged bird that had been a drunken and impulsive mistake while she was at her worst and he hadn't been there to stop her. She still has the blackbirds on her hand that are supposed to represent them and Mary ''soaring together forever.'' Even that angel wing tattoo in between her shoulder blades that she had gotten long before him with the same Latin inscription he had etched into her tombstone.

 _She flies with her own wings._

She loved that.

It's all her. It's all just...Laurel.

It doesn't hit him until he's carefully drying her off and his eyes catch the angel wings, the freckles on her back, the stretch marks from when she carried their daughter, all of these things that make her who she is, the parts of her that he never thought he'd see. She's really here. He steps away from her to let Thea wrap her up in her robe. She seems to like the robe. She pulls it around her a little tighter, holds it up close to her face so she can press her cheek against the soft, warm fabric, and she even manages a quick, weak smile. He can't decide if the thing choking him from the inside of his throat is a laugh or a sob. He swallows it down and turns to grab the first aid kit from under the sink.

It's silent as Dean works on her hands while Thea combs out even more tangles. There are so many things that he wants to say. He wants to tell her how much he missed her, how much he loves her and needs her, and how sorry he is for failing her when it really counted. He wants to tell her about all of the hearts she took with her when she left because they just couldn't keep beating without her here. He wants to kiss her. But she seems grateful for the silence and the minimal touching, so he doesn't tell her any of that. He just concentrates on her hands.

With all of the blood and the dirt washed away, they don't look as bad as they did. They're bad but he had been worried about having to give her stitches and possible nerve damage. The skin on her knuckles is cut up but the bleeding is sluggish and once he cleans them up, puts some Neosporin on and wraps them up, they look better. Her nails, on the other hand, are torn away and they're still bleeding a lot. He does what he can for her, trimming away some of the sharp pieces of nails, using Q-tips to wash away the dirt and blood under her nails, and covering her fingers with band aids. It's an awkward looking contraption and it's going to be even harder for her to use her hands in the coming days, especially when the fog of shock clears and she feels the full force of the pain, but when he looks up at her, she's looking down at her hands and she looks relieved to be rid of all the gore.

''Better?'' He asks.

She manages a jerky nod and brings her hands up to her chest again.

''I think I'm done too.'' Thea puts the comb on the sink and steps into her line of vision. ''Look at you,'' she smiles. ''Good as new.'' Bit of an overstatement, but okay. ''Do you feel okay?''

Laurel blinks a few times. ''I guess,'' she says slowly. ''Everything's...'' She drops her eyes, frowning. ''It's all blurry.''

Dean and Thea exchange a brief worried look before he realizes - ''Oh, that's - you're not wearing your glasses or your contacts. Thea, can you go grab her glasses? They're on top of the dresser. And maybe grab her something to wear. Something loose.''

''Right,'' Thea gives a short, determined nod. Nevertheless, she hesitates to leave the room. ''On it.''

''Dean,'' Laurel whispers, once they're alone. ''How...'' Her eyes glimmer and she won't look him in the eye. ''How long?'' She sniffles. ''How long was I gone?''

He looks down at his wedding ring and thinks of all the time he's spent without her. He can tell her how many months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, even seconds. He's tried so hard to ignore that clock inside of him but it won't let him. Her absence was a pain that demanded to be felt. ''Seven months.''

She crumples instantly and he watches this familiar look of panic and devastation cross her face. It's a look he has only seen once before.

Despite what everyone else thinks, despite the soft smile she plastered on her face and the calm demeanor she projected to comfort everyone around her, she was not calm on that last night in the hospital. She put on a happy face for the people around her because she didn't want them to be as scared as she was. That was just the kind of thing Laurel did. It was who she was. _Is_. From the moment she woke up to the moment she left, she was terrified. She was groggy and in a lot of pain and, looking back on it now, he thinks she might have known on some level what was going to happen.

Before she was allowed visitors, when it was just him and she was just waking up, she was a mess. She was incoherent and scared, crying out for him and Mary and her dad and trying to get out of bed, only stopping when they threatened to get the restraints. She was puking and she kept trying to scratch at her skin because she thought something was crawling on her - both very common side effects of the anesthesia and nothing to be worried about, according to the doctors, but horrifying to see - and she had no idea what was going on. He remembers looking into her panic stricken eyes and thinking to himself, _We just have to make it through the night. Tomorrow will be better._

It wasn't.

''I don't think I'm her,'' she confesses in a small, wobbly voice. ''The woman you loved. I don't think I'm her.''

He can't say that thought hasn't crossed his mind. ''Of course you are.'' What else can he say?

''I don't feel right.''

''You're in shock.''

''I don't remember what happened.'' She's breathing rapidly now, the panic in her eyes quickly growing into hysteria. ''Dean, I don't remember what happened to me.''

''Okay.'' He puts a hand on her knee cautiously. She doesn't flinch away. ''That's okay. What's the last thing you do remember?''

''I...'' She draws in a deep breath. ''I woke up. I pulled myself out.''

''Right. That's good. Do you remember anything before that?''

She clears her throat. ''I - Well...'' She frowns deeply, brows furrowing. She's struggling. She's trying so hard to remember something, anything. He can see that. He opens his mouth to tell her to take a break, but she stands abruptly, startling him into clamping his mouth shut. She moves past him to pace the length of the bathroom. ''I'm - '' She stops suddenly, eyes widening, both hands falling to her stomach. ''I'm pregnant.''

Dean's entire body goes rigid and cold.

''Am I pregnant?''

He licks his lips slowly. He doesn't know how to answer that question right now. He can barely remember to breathe. He had been hoping to avoid this for as long as possible. He packs up the first aid kit and balances it on the sink before rising to his feet. ''Laurel, I'm not sure we should - ''

''Wait,'' she says. ''Wait, no.'' She lets out a breath and rakes a hand through her wet hair. ''I _was_ pregnant.''

He closes his eyes and tries not to let his relief show too much.

''I had - Mary.'' Her lips quirk into an almost smile. ''Mary,'' she says their daughter's name like she's talking about the most amazing thing to ever exist. Understandable. ''I remembered her. I remembered her,'' her voice hitches, ''before everything.'' A few tears slip down her cheeks and she blinks furiously. ''Is she okay?''

''She's okay,'' he assures her, taking a step in her direction. He does his best to smile for her. ''She's growing like a weed.'' When she has no reaction to him moving closer, he takes a few more steps into her space. A few hours ago, he had thought this was an impossibility. Just another thing life had stolen. The simple ability to be able to stand next to his very much alive wife. He knows he should be wary of this, he knows there are consequences, but here they are. Together. It's hard not to feel like it's a gift. ''It was her birthday today,'' he blurts out. ''Or, I guess technically yesterday. She's four now. She's so beautiful, Laurel. She looks just like you. She started preschool in September. It's the one you picked out. She's still shy, but she's getting better. And she's so kind. You remember that, right? She's the sweetest kid. That's you.'' He takes her wrists in his hands as carefully as possible, not to restrain her but to feel her pulse. ''That's all you.''

''I... I missed her birthday,'' she whispers raggedly.

''But you're here now.'' He looks down at her hands. ''I tell her about you,'' he murmurs. ''So she won't forget.'' He raises his head. ''All the time. We've missed you. You have no idea.'' It may not be the best thing to be telling her right now because she's standing here fragile and crying and the last thing he wants to do is make her feel guilty about circumstances out of her control. But the words just keep coming, like something inside of him has burst wide open. ''I didn't know what I was doing,'' he admits. ''I didn't know how to raise Mary or comfort Thea or just...do anything. It's been - We had what? Almost seven years together? You're a part of me, and then you were just gone. It was like losing a limb. I forgot...''

 _I forgot who I was without you_ , he doesn't say. He can't tell her shit like that. Not right now. He can't put that on her shoulders when she's hurt and in shock and still might be a trick. He's had this hallucination before. For months.

The first time was after the funeral. There were all these people in his house with their condolences and their casseroles and he was still pissed off about what Oliver had done and he couldn't breathe through the suffocation of his brand new life without Laurel in it, so he escaped. He ducked into his bedroom and there she was, sitting at her vanity, putting on lipstick. She turned her head to him with a laugh, red lips shining in the light, and then he blinked and she was gone.

It kept happening. He'd have these flashes of her. Vivid memories maybe, or just the insanity of grief. One quiet Sunday morning, he woke up and she was standing at the foot of the bed in her hospital gown, drawn and sickly, cut above her right eyebrow, lips blue, skin colorless.

If he was in the city at night, he'd look up and Black Canary would be on a rooftop. She'd be standing there, legs apart, superhero determination clear in her body language, silhouetted by the moonlight with her golden hair billowing behind her like a halo. The first time he saw her, he went straight to that ridiculous lair of Oliver's and demanded to know who was wearing her suit.

They had all looked at him strangely, exchanging worried glances before John said, very carefully, ''Nobody's wearing her suit, Dean. You took it. Don't you remember?''

Even his arch nemesis the Green Idiot had looked at him with this grossly pitiable expression and asked, very carefully, ''Are you...okay?'' Of course he had ruined that moment of almost compassion by narrowing his eyes, putting his hands on his hips and asking, ''How much have you had to drink tonight?''

Not a drop in four years, asshole, but thanks for the faux concern.

During the two unbearable weeks at the bunker in Kansas, she never left. He made coffee one morning, turned around, and she was standing there in her wedding dress. ''How do I look?'' She had asked, and his coffee mug shattered on the ground. ''Do you remember this? Our last uncomplicated moment.''

She wasn't a ghost. He had checked. Multiple times. She was just...a figment. She has followed him for months, one step behind him, that little fallen angel on his shoulder, simply because he hadn't been ready to live without her. He will never be ready to live without her.

He's had dreams about this too. Every night, when he finally falls into his fitful four hours, if he's not having nightmares, he's having dreams of her. He's in Iron Heights with her, fighting by her side, where he should have been, taking the arrow for her to make sure she lived. He's in the hospital watching the doctors save her life and bring her back to him like they should have. He's in the kitchen, making dinner, and there's a knock on the door. When he opens it, she's standing on the other side, gorgeous and smiling and alive, wearing her favourite dress and her favourite gray suede jacket.

''I'm so sorry I'm late,'' she always says. ''I got so lost. Did you miss me?''

Every night he says, ''Every day, pretty bird,'' and he lets her in.

Laurel comes home every night. And then he wakes up alone.

So, you know, yeah. He's a little overly cautious right now. He's not convinced.

Laurel looks at him without saying a word, tears still making tracks down her cheeks. She manages a fairly breakable looking smile and then brings a hand to his face. He melts instantly, leaning into her touch, eyelids fluttering shut. It's such a Laurel thing to do. The loving touch of her hand. She used to do it all the time. He's missed it. Her body is home and he's been homeless for so long.

''I'm sorry I left,'' she whispers, and he has to open his eyes and snap out of it.

''It's not your fault.''

She draws her hand back, letting it fall to her side. Her voice wobbles as she admits, quietly, ''I didn't want to go.''

''I know.''

She looks down at her left hand, wiggling her bandaged fingers. ''Where are my rings? My-My wedding rings. Did I lose them?''

''Oh, uh, no.'' He pulls the chain out from under his shirt. Her engagement ring and wedding ring clatter and jingle together. ''You weren't...'' He fingers the rings delicately before lifting the chain over his head. ''We took them off of you,'' he says. ''For... You know.''

 _Burial,_ he thinks. He still can't say the word.

''I wanted to keep them in case Mary wanted them someday,'' he says. Because her hands are so wrecked, he carefully places the chain around her neck instead.

She exhales, relieved, and places a hand over her heart, on top of the rings. ''Thank you.''

''Always.''

''I...'' She wrinkles her nose. ''I was buried?''

He chews on his bottom lip nervously. ''You were.''

''Not cremated?''

''No.''

''Oh.''

He grimaces. He is well aware that he hadn't been a perfect husband while she was alive but it's the failures after her death that stick with him. He hadn't been able to protect her from Oliver outing her as Black Canary at her funeral, he hadn't been able to protect her reputation in the fallout, and he hadn't been able to give her the one thing she had specifically asked for. She updated her will frequently, especially after becoming the Black Canary. One of the things that never changed was her desire to be cremated. She hadn't wanted to be buried. The idea horrified her. She didn't want them to take her blood and replace it with chemicals that might harm the environment. She'd left a note for Dean in her will about it, actually.

 _I'm a Winchester_ , it said. _You have to salt and burn me. I know you don't want to but please, Dean. Please do this for me. I don't trust myself not to stay and become something I'm not. I can't be your ghost. Please don't let me rot._

He hadn't been able to salt and burn her. He had scoffed at the note with burning eyes and thought, _You should've known you were always going to be my ghost_. He made the arrangements for her to be cremated. Even started looking into getting a permit to spread her ashes in Big Sur. But when her parents found out, they turned on him. Accused him of throwing her away like trash. Cremation is not, apparently, something that Lances do. He'd pretty much been shut out of the funeral arrangements after that. Thea had managed to get them to at least bury her with her necklace and give him her rings but they hadn't given her the funeral she wanted. They took her to a funeral home, they had her embalmed, they put her in the ground, and he hadn't been able to protect her from any of it.

Hell, they hadn't even given her the gravestone she wanted. The original one they put up was pitiful. Reduced her identity entirely to the Canary in her and erased everything else about her. He had it replaced after a few weeks behind Dinah and Quentin's backs.

The silence between them is uncomfortable and awkward, a radical change from the way they were, and he has no idea what to do with his hands. He wants to hug her, but she still doesn't seem that receptive to hugging right now.

No one ever prepares you for this kind of situation. No one ever tells you how to exist in the aftermath of a crushing loss. No one tells you how you're supposed to live without her here. No one tells you what to do when she comes home either.

''I know it was what you wanted,'' he finally says. ''But your parents - ''

''It's okay,'' she cuts him off and shrugs, unconcerned. ''I guess it's a good thing I was buried instead of cremated, right? Because here I am.''

''Right,'' he says, heart banging against his ribcage. ''Here you are.''

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.

In the bedroom, Dean leans against the doorframe and watches as Laurel drifts around the room aimlessly, like a living ghost.

She does look better. They've made sure to keep the lights off to make her more comfortable and she's finally stopped shivering. She's got her glasses on, which seems to have helped with the blurriness, although the only thing that will really help is time for her body to readjust. She's wearing one of her old maternity nightgowns that won't aggravate her wounds and her hair is dirt and tangle free. She still doesn't look like herself.

She wanders over to her vanity while Dean and Thea keep wary eyes on her. She doesn't say anything but her eyes scan the pictures tucked into the mirror. She sits down and stares at her reflection for a solid minute before Thea breaks the silence. ''Hey, are you hungry?''

Laurel doesn't react.

''We could order pizza,'' Thea suggests with a grin. ''Or, oh, Indian food! You love Indian food.''

''Thea.'' Dean pushes off the doorframe.

''Or we don't have to order out,'' Thea interjects. ''We could just make sandwiches. Or soup. Raisa always used to make me soup when I was sick. Not that you're sick. I just, um - How about a drink? I could make you some tea.'' She gives up, letting out a rattled sigh.

Laurel glances at Thea, looking torn somewhere between confused and worried. She looks back at the pictures, plucking one from it's spot on the mirror. ''Have you called my dad?''

''We can call whoever you want,'' Dean tells her.

She puts the picture back. ''You should call my dad,'' she says, decisively. ''He should know. And Sara. Sam, Tommy, and Cas too. I don't want them to think I'm dead.''

There is a prolonged moment of silence after Tommy's name slips from her lips.

''Tommy?'' Thea's voice sounds strangled. ''You want us to call Tommy?''

Laurel stands, wincing slightly. ''If that's okay, yeah.''

''Um, Laurel...''

''We'll call,'' Dean cuts in, shooting Thea a warning look. ''We'll call everyone and tell them to get over here as soon as possible. In the meantime, how about you get some rest?''

All at once, her entire demeanor changes. The quiet, calmness shifts into panic and she grabs at his arm tightly, shaking her head. ''No. No, I'm not. I'm not tired.''

''Laurel,'' Thea steps forward. ''Hey, sweetie, it's okay.''

''I don't want to go to sleep,'' she pleads. ''What if I don't wake up?''

''You don't have to sleep.'' Dean automatically moves to stroke her hair before he even realizes what he's doing. ''You can just lie down and rest.''

''We won't leave you if you don't want us to.''

It doesn't help. Laurel is still shaking her head adamantly. ''I can't. I can't. It's too much.'' She closes her eyes but immediately snaps them open again. ''It's too much like the - like my...'' Like her casket. ''I don't want to wake up and be in there again.''

''Oh, Laurel.'' Thea does not have the same reservations Dean does about hugging because she wraps her arms around Laurel without a second thought.

The idea that pops into his head next may not be the best idea he's ever had. He's going to do it anyway.

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''Daddy?'' Mary's sleepy mumble is hoarse and confused but she still somehow manages one of those sunshine smiles when she pries open her sleep encrusted eyes and sees him there. ''Oh, hi, Daddy.''

''Hi, honeybee,'' he chuckles. ''I've got one more birthday present for you. How does that sound?''

She doesn't say anything but she doesn't seem overly cranky when he lifts her into his arms. By the time they're in the hallway, she's already rubbing at her eyes and looking around for her present. He puts her down just outside the master bedroom and takes her hand before pushing open the door and leading her inside. Mary pokes her head around the door, craning her neck to try and see her present.

For the past four years, Mary has been a constant source of wonder to him. She amazes him every day the same way her mother did - and hopefully will again. He knows he's biased but in his opinion, his daughter is the greatest kid on the entire planet. She has this awe inspiring wisdom, an incredible capacity for kindness and compassion, the same light and grace that her mother has, and even though she is hands down the shyest kid he's ever been around, she is also the bravest.

Even so, these past two hundred and eight days have been rough. No kid should ever have to endure the sudden and horrific loss of their mother, regardless of the bravery in their little bones and the strength in their beating heart. Mary has. Mary has cried and screamed and begged for her mom. She still calls out for Laurel whenever her balance issues have her tripping over her own feet, resulting in scraped knees and tears. But she still smiles. She still laughs and loves, gives the best hugs in the world, and she still keeps him going even when he doesn't want to. Especially when he doesn't want to.

The best moment of Dean's life was the moment Mary was born. The first time he laid eyes on her, he was gone. The look on Mary's face when she steps into the bedroom and sees her mom for the first time in over half a year is a close second.

There is a split second after Laurel turned around to face the little girl where Mary can't seem to work out what's happening. Her breaths start coming in these short pants like she can't quite make her mouth work as quickly as she wants it to, can't quite get the words out, but then her entire face just lights up and she lets out this shriek of joy. ''Mommy!''

This is the moment Laurel comes home.

The color returns to her cheeks and this look of utter adoration seeps into her eyes. Suddenly, as if an internal switch has been flipped on, Dinah Laurel Lance is standing there, spark and all. ''Mary,'' she breathes out, bringing her hands to her mouth.

It's all the invitation Mary needs. She throws her stuffed shark at Dean, races forward, and launches herself at her mom. Laurel catches her easily, sweeping her up off the ground and into the safety of her arms; a place the little girl hasn't been for way too long. Laurel starts sobbing instantly, crying into Mary's hair, looking so relieved and so happy and so alive. Mary curls her arms around Laurel's neck and doesn't let go.

Dean draws Thea away from the two, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her to him gently. She lets him, sending him a watery smile as she reaches up to squeeze his hand. ''That was a good idea,'' she says, letting out a shaky laugh.

He can't even speak.

Mary pulls away from the hug to look at Laurel. She sloppily brushes the tears off of her mother's cheeks and wipes them on her footie pajamas before slowly bringing both hands to Laurel's face. For a minute, all she does is look at her. And then she laughs. She looks so happy. He hasn't seen her that happy in so long. Mary is still giggling, little hands pressed to Laurel's cheeks. ''Hi, Mommy,'' she greets, and the lopsided world they've been trapped in rights itself.

Laurel chokes out a laugh. ''Hello, little bird.''

Dean knows that you'd have to be a naive fool to believe in miracles in this world. That's always been his stance on the issue. He's a pessimist. Call it a character flaw or a weakness or whatever. The world has never given him a reason to believe in miracles without consequences. Right now, he is ready and willing to be a fool.

Mary deserves good things. Laurel deserves good things. Thea deserves good things. This whole damn family deserves at least one thing. One simple, uncomplicated, happy, good thing.

Please, God, let this be a good thing.

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 **end part one**

* * *

 _AN: So, this fic is not only the product of my general bitterness over Certain Events but also multiple prompts I've gotten over on tumblr. Many thanks to the anons who sent in these prompts:_

 _''Ok now I need some Dean/Laurel babyfic after seeing the Wolves at the Door trailer.''_

 _''Wolves at the door has given me all the pregnant laurel feelsm can I humbly request some pregnant!laurel/dean fluff?''_

 _''All I want from season five is for Laurel to pull a Dean Winchester/Buffy Summers and crawl out of her grave. Preferably with a BC scream!''_

 _''Can I request a Dean/Laurel fic that isn't a fix-it fic? I love stories where she doesn't die but I'm also an angstwhore. Arrow didn't do right by her in life, they didn't do right by her in death and they didn't capture any kind of proper grief because they didnt care enough to try. Your angst fics are by far my favorite and I feel like you could do our grief justice and use Dean as the vehicle for that grief. Maybe a story where he tries to bring her back can't and has to live with the loss?''_

 _''Do you think you could write another fic where Dean and Laurel have a little girl like in your Love is a River one? I just think the idea of Dean with a daughter is adorable!''_


	2. You Are Here

_AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Vomiting, blunt discussion of childbirth, panic attacks._

* * *

 **How the Light Gets In**

 _Written by Becks Rylynn_

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.

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 **Part Two:**

 _You Are Here_

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 **November, 2012**

 _Laurel wakes slowly._

 _She doesn't have much of a choice. Her body feels heavy and reluctant to return to the land of the living, clinging to sleep for as long as possible before she forces open her gluey eyelids. She blinks weakly and then closes her eyes again, drifting. There is sunlight streaming into the bedroom and she's not wearing her glasses or her contacts, so opening her eyes isn't something she's terribly interested in right now._

 _She licks her dry lips and rakes a hand through her greasy hair. For a moment, in her half asleep, oddly hungover-like daze, she can't quite remember why her body feels so wrecked and sore. Her breasts, especially, feel hard and swollen. Even her throat hurts. And then, as she slowly comes back to herself, everything comes rushing back to her in this hazy memory of pain, screaming, blood, and a gross overload of other bodily fluids and sounds that, when she is fully recovered, she will be embarrassed to remember she made. Her eyes snap open and her heart jolts and thuds against her ribcage, lips parting in shock._

 _Holy crap. Holy shit. She had a baby. Last night, October 31st, 11:23pm. She gave birth. She pushed another human being out of her body. She remembers that. It's hard to forget that surreal, mind numbing pain._

 _She allows her sluggish brain a second of shock, trying unsuccessfully to fathom how on earth she did any of it, from the nine month long horror show to the difficult birth. It all seems so unbelievable. 24 hours ago she was eight days overdue, miserable, suffering from days of contractions that didn't do anything, pacing the apartment, eating pineapple and spicy foods, and begging Dean to have sex with her to jumpstart labor because she was so sick of being pregnant and just wanted that baby to get out. Now she's kind of wishing she was still pregnant. It's just that - her baby was safe inside of her. She was safe and warm, just swimming around and chilling. Now she's out here in this big, scary world, and Laurel has no idea how to protect her from the bad things._

 _The second of reminiscing passes by, then life catches up to her and she realizes, with a sickening jolt, that the bedroom is frighteningly baby free. The sudden and immense panic is unexpected. It startles a gasp out of her, but before she can have a full on ''where's my baby'' panic attack and start screaming like a banshee, the door creaks open and there's Dean._

 _He looks tired and somehow both terrified and peaceful, with this soft, slow smile on his face that makes her breath catch. There is a bundle in his arms; this tiny body swaddled in a soft yellow blanket, and there is a voice in the back of her head, telling her that this is the best thing she will ever see, that this moment right here is happiness and that she is so very lucky to be here and to have this, even if she is scared._

 _''Hey,'' Dean greets, shutting the bedroom door behind him with a quiet click. ''There's Mom,'' he murmurs to their girl. ''You told me she was awake, didn't you?'' He looks up. ''How are you feeling?''_

 _Laurel swallows a bark of incredulous laughter. ''Oh, you know,'' she shrugs. ''Like I just squeezed a seven pound infant out of my vagina.'' She frowns and tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. ''But also kinda hungover.''_

 _Dean chuckles lightly. He can barely take his eyes off of the baby. ''You two had a long day yesterday.'' He must sense Laurel's anxiety because by the time she's shifted herself into a position as comfortable as possible, arms reaching for her baby, he is already halfway across the room. Their daughter is transferred carefully and with this fragile, uncharacteristic tenderness and nervous reluctance from her father's arms to her mother's._

 _As soon as she lays eyes on the little girl, Laurel feels this dizzying rush of an impossible, overwhelming love and fear. ''Hi, baby,'' she rasps. ''Hi, Mary.''_

 _This is still so strange to her. It feels like a dream. To be holding her child in her arms. When she was pregnant, there was this disconcerting sense of unreality and fragility that followed her everywhere she went. For nine months, she tiptoed through eggshells, not really believing she would end up here. For someone who tries so hard to be positive and optimistic, clinging desperately to any shred of hope she can find, she'd been oddly cynical all throughout the pregnancy. Maybe it had just been the anxiety or the hormones, but she had been so certain that life wouldn't give them this moment. She had been so sure that something would go wrong and they wouldn't get their happy ending._

 _But here they are, all three of them, in this moment, and they're all still breathing, ready for this new life, this new journey to officially begin. She is a mother. Dean is a father. They have a daughter. Her name is Mary Beatrice Lance-Winchester, though Laurel's going to try her best to push just Mary Winchester rather than that mouthful, she was seven pounds, eight ounces at birth, she's really here, and she is easily the most beautiful and the most terrifying creature her parents have ever seen. Mary is awake in her arms, big eyes blinking slowly, peering up at her almost quizzically while she makes these unbearably adorable high pitched squeaking noises._

 _She lasts less than a minute, staring down at her beautiful girl, and then something explodes inside of her and she abruptly bursts into tears. ''Oh, crap,'' she blubbers. She gulps and tries unsuccessfully to control herself but she can't. The loss of control is startling and embarrassing. ''What the hell?''_

 _Dean laughs. It's not a mocking or unkind laugh, more tired and fond, but she still finds her cheeks burning._

 _''It's not funny,'' she chokes out indignantly._

 _''I know.'' He sits down on the bed next to her and grabs the box of tissues from the bedside table. ''I'm sorry, honey.'' He leans in to press a kiss to the top of her head._

 _''This is so stupid,'' she mumbles, awkwardly trying to shift Mary into one arm so she can grab a tissue. She gives up on that after about thirty seconds, releasing a frustrated sigh. She has no idea what she's doing here, and it only makes her cry harder. It shouldn't, because she's new at this whole baby thing and of course it's going to be all about learning for awhile but she still sobs miserably. Dutifully, Dean plucks a tissue from the box and helpfully begins to mop up her tears. This also makes her cry because he's just being so sweet and gentle. Which is dumb because it's not like he's doing something so amazing and kind that no one else in the world has ever done. He's wiping up her tears and snot because her arms are full of baby. She doesn't want to be crass in front of her newborn but honestly what the fuck? She is a hot mess right now. This is some pregnancy hormone bullshit. ''I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I'm crying.''_

 _''You just had a baby. It's the hormones,'' he soothes. ''They're still out of whack. Alex says it's normal. There's nothing wrong with you.'' He unceremoniously flops down on the bed, one hand moving to rub circles on her back. He throws the other one over his face, blocking the brightness of the room from his eyes._

 _She sniffles and manages a nod, looking back down at Mary. Right. Hormones. She does recall something about that. She should have paid more attention to the post-partum section in the five thousand pregnancy books she has purchased over the last nine months. She holds her breath and tells herself that it's normal, that there's nothing wrong with her. Mary seems blissfully unaware of her mother's emotional distress, looking sleepy and maybe a little hungry. ''Okay.'' Laurel exhales, and tries to think clearly. She looks back over at Dean. ''Um, can I ask you a weird question?''_

 _''I'm always up for weird questions,'' he mumbles into his arm._

 _''Do I remember throwing up all over myself?''_

 _He snorts. He moves his arm from his face to look at her and his other hand - regrettably, because it felt so nice - falls away from her back to pat her knee through the covers. ''Unfortunately, you do.''_

 _''Ugh,'' she groans, cheeks reddening. ''I was hoping that was just my brain trying to make it seem worse than it was.''_

 _''Nah, you definitely threw up all over yourself,'' he tells her with a nod. ''You puked a lot, actually. But so what?'' He waves his hand carelessly. ''Transition sucked and you had a hard time pushing. It's not a big deal.''_

 _She sighs heavily. ''You're never going to look at me the same again, are you?''_

 _''No,'' he says, like it's the most obvious thing in world. Which, okay, maybe it is, but a little tact would have been nice. ''I'm going to look at you like you're a rock star.''_

 _That's too sweet for her hormones to handle right now so she pointedly does not look at him and looks back down at Mary. ''Your dad's going to make me start bawling again. Don't be scared. I won't always be like this.''_

 _He frowns, eyes closed, and says, ''One time, you saw a Yorkie on the street and started blubbering.''_

 _She presses her lips together and tries to come up with something to say to defend herself. ''Well, it was super cute. And the hormones - ''_

 _''You weren't pregnant.''_

 _She rolls her eyes. ''I was PMS-ing though. So. Same idea. Why do you always bring up the Yorkie? Anyway,'' she says the last word firmly and sends him a warning look. ''Is Alex still here?''_

 _''She's here. She wants to check on you in a few minutes. She just had to take a call from a client. Why?'' Abruptly, his tone changes, and when she glances over at him, there's this anxious look on his face and he's propped himself up onto his elbows to look at her, brows furrowed in concern. ''Are you okay?'' The exhausted urgency in his voice makes him sound like he's worried she's thrown a clot. ''Are you in pain? What's wrong?''_

 _''Whoa, hey, no, relax.'' She nudges him gently and offers him what she hopes is a reassuring smile before he impulsively calls 911. Considering how nervous this whole thing has made him, it's a legitimate concern. She feels bad about that. She feels like it's her fault. She didn't create his anxiety but she knows she hasn't helped. The home birth had been her idea, something that had been important to her, and he went along with it because he wanted her to be comfortable, but he was never fully on board with it. He had been absolutely amazing during the actual labor. He was her rock, calm and steady, far more focused than she had been at some points, outwardly cool as a cucumber even if he was likely screaming internally, but it had never been hard to tell that the home birth had made him incredibly nervous. In his view, no matter how prepared you are or what situation you're in, things can go south extremely quickly. There is no such thing as a controlled situation. It's a valid viewpoint, but she had wanted this experience so much._

 _If she's being honest, she's not sure she would do it this way again._

 _It wasn't actually an experience she needed to have. It wasn't anyone's fault that it had been so terrible. It's just that childbirth is terrible. She was healthy, the baby was healthy, their apartment is super close to the hospital, and Alex Danvers is an incredible midwife, an all-around fantastic person in general, and was such an amazing support person to have during this. Other than the fact that she hadn't anticipated just how extreme her emotional response to labor was going to be and the fact that she was shit at actually pushing the baby out, everything had gone as smoothly as it could have. But it had not been the experience she had been expecting, and right now, in the direct aftermath, she doesn't even know if she can properly articulate what she had been expecting._

 _It had been so important to her while she was pregnant to have a perfect birth. Whatever the hell that is. She had a birth plan, she apparently had something in mind for what she wanted, and she had been so adamant about everything. She had wanted this for a few reasons. Ever since her well publicized relationship with Oliver, and Oliver and Sara's well publicized deaths, she has become a stubbornly private person. The idea of being surrounded by strangers during an intensely vulnerable time had been a repulsive and panic inducing idea to her and with her history of panic attacks, she had wanted an environment that would be comfortable for her. Not that being at home had really helped with that. She had still wound up panicking._

 _She and Sara had both been born at home. That had been another reason she had advocated so strongly for a home birth. It's just how she was raised. She had grown up hearing these passing remarks - not just from her mother but her grandmother and aunts - about how hospitals were cold and unfeeling, they pushed you into unnecessary surgeries, they forced medical interventions on you without your permission and compromised you and your baby's health and safety. Home births, on the other hand, were amazing and empowering and something about inner strength or whatever. Drake women do not give birth in hospitals. That is just how it has always been. Because somewhere along the line, someone had a bad experience and decided to push their views on every new generation under the guise of ''tradition.''_

 _Except, turns out, Laurel is not her mother. She is not her grandmother, she is not her aunts, she is not anyone but herself._

 _Dress it up as much as you like, childbirth sucks. It's hard and it's painful and exhausting and completely out of your control. There is no perfect, no magnificence, no glorious, wonderful experience. There is pain, blood, bodily fluids, gore, and, if everything goes right, an alive and breathing mother and child. It doesn't matter where it happens. Or, maybe it does to some people. She doesn't want to invalidate their emotions. But it shouldn't matter. It had easily been one of the most intense, physically and emotionally taxing, and oddly primal things she has ever been through. The whole thing is like this hazy fog of awfulness in her head. She doesn't feel particularly empowered and she certainly doesn't feel superior._

 _She mostly feels shell shocked, sore, and confused as to why this had been so important to her when the only thing that should have been important to her was getting out alive and with a healthy baby in her arms. Also really, really hungry._

 _She remembers the uncontrollable vulnerability. She remembers continuously and irrationally begging Dean to help her even though she couldn't vocalize how she wanted him to help her, which - even though he didn't show it - probably stressed him out insurmountably. She remembers that she got so overwhelmed and scared that she wound up having a panic attack so bad that she had to have an oxygen mask strapped to her face while she was trying to push. She remembers sobbing miserably, cranky and sweaty and hurting and scared, begging to go to the hospital so they would give her a c-section, 100% positive that she was going to die, and - yeah, no, she doesn't think she ever wants to go through that again. She was so completely out of it, so outside of herself, that she could barely speak, couldn't think, and everything was so blurred together that it felt like days were going by. She could barely even remember her own name at one point. For someone who ardently strives for control in every part of her life to the point where her need for control occasionally becomes detrimental to her mental state, childbirth was not something she found particularly awesome. It was something she found petrifying and traumatizing._

 _Why do people choose to go through that again? Obviously she's glad they do because if they didn't she wouldn't have Sara or Sam or Thea but for real. Why? If she ever winds up making the decision to do this again - which, in her current opinion, is highly unlikely - it would be in a hospital with an epidural._

 _The whole thing was just shitty. Worth it in the end, but still incredibly shitty and upsetting. She should probably share these emotions with someone. Maybe get Alex to set her up with a therapist. Given her history, she should at least let someone know how she's feeling so they can keep an eye on her mental state in the coming weeks. She's already convinced she's going to have to deal with post-partum depression and anxiety; she doesn't want to add untreated post-partum psychosis to the list. For now, though, she decides she's going to shield Dean from this and tells him, calmly, with a smile on her face, ''I'm fine. We're all fine.'' She'll tell him eventually, and he will be wonderful about it, but right now they're both wrecks and definitely not coherent enough to discuss this. ''I just have questions,'' she adds. She licks her lips. ''A lot of questions. And I think I'm going to need help feeding Mary.'' She smiles sheepishly, teeth sinking into her lower lip. ''I-I have no idea what I'm doing.''_

 _''Oh. Okay, yeah. I'll go get her.'' He seems reluctant to leave the bed, even more reluctant to leave them, but he does eventually haul himself to his feet, scrubbing a hand over his face. Watching him drag himself in the direction of the bedroom door, Laurel realizes, quite suddenly, that she has no idea how long she was out for and there's no way Dean would have slept if he was the only parent Mary had with her, even with Alex still there. The poor guy hasn't slept._

 _''Um,'' she clears her throat, grimacing guiltily. ''Also,'' she tacks on, stopping him in his tracks, ''I need to have a shower but my legs sort of feel like jelly right now so I think - ''_

 _''I can help you with that,'' he cuts in with a nod. ''Do you need anything else? Water? Something to eat?''_

 _''Actually, that would be great,'' she says. ''I feel like I haven't eaten in days.'' It's kind of weird, actually. Her appetite has been MIA over the last few weeks, which was greatly upsetting to someone who loves food as much as she does, but now that she's not pregnant anymore, she's suddenly ravenous._

 _''Anything specific?''_

 _Her first thought, if she's being honest, is candy. Yesterday was Halloween and she's not going to lie; she's still miffed that she couldn't enjoy her annual tradition of stuffing her face with candy because she was too busy laboring. Probably not a bad thing she missed out on that because she just would have thrown it all up anyway, but she's still choosing to be irritated that she missed out on her candy. However, as much as she wants her Snickers and Milky Way bars, it's probably best to wait until Dean's had at least some sleep before she sends him out driving somewhere. ''Just something quick and easy,'' she shrugs. ''A bowl of cereal or a sandwich is fine.''_

 _''Got it.''_

 _''Oh,'' she looks up sharply, catching him before he can slip out the door. ''By the way, after you help me with the shower, you should get some sleep.'' Maybe he hasn't been through exactly the same ordeal as her and Mary but it's not like it's been a walk in the park for him. He needs sleep, too._

 _He laughs at the suggestion. ''Babe, I don't think we're going to be sleeping for awhile.''_

 _She raises her eyebrows and schools her face into a firm, determined look. ''Dean.''_

 _He holds his hands up in surrender. ''I'll try to sleep later.''_

 _''You better.'' He starts to leave again, making it all the way across the room to the door before she stops him once again. ''Dean.''_

 _He turns, weary. ''Yes, dear?''_

 _''I...'' She looks down at Mary. Her mind registers the warm weight in her arms and how exhausted and worn out her body is and it all just hits her. It's like this strange moment of realization. Everything that has happened has actually happened and nothing monumentally horrible occurred. She is right here, living a life she had given up on having years ago. She's married. She's holding her child. She is going to build a better city, a better world, an empire meant to save this city and it's citizens with CNRI. All of this has happened. She is definitely about to start crying again._

 _Of course, the helplessness hasn't gone away. There is an uncontrollable anxiety lurking in her head, the terror is still firmly lodged inside her chest, and there's still a lot of things to worry about but this - This isn't a mistake. Mary isn't a mistake. When her tiny, slippery body had been placed on Laurel's chest, all she could think in her fog of blubbering, incoherent emotion and exhaustion was 'I have no idea what to do with this baby.'_

 _She still doesn't know what to do with her, honestly. All of this is brand new to her. She's never even been around babies. Little kids, preteens, teenagers, sure. She can handle all of that, but babies are the wild card. She never babysat when she was younger. She spent time with cousins while she was growing up but most of them were either older or the same age as her. It's not like she has a wealth of friends either, so she doesn't even know anyone who has kids other than a few people from law school who she's Facebook friends with. The last time she was around a baby for any serious length of time was when Sara was a baby. And she was a toddler, so she has basically zero memory of that._

 _She did sign up for a course of parenting classes during her pregnancy and managed to drag Dean to a few of them, but thanks to her hectic work schedule and all of the weird shit that has been happening ever since The Hood showed up, the class wound up mostly being a huge waste of money. For God's sake, she didn't even know how to properly hold a baby until last night. Dean had to step in and show her because he could see how paralyzed and awkward she was. It's a damn good thing he has at least basic knowledge of how to keep a baby alive because she is utterly and completely incompetent in this area of life._

 _She did not think this whole baby thing through. Kids have always been a part of her life plan, yes, but not for a long time. They were always just an idea in the back of her head, so far away, nothing to worry about yet. She hadn't even wanted to start thinking about kids until she was at least thirty. She knows nothing about babies or how to be a mom. These are uncharted waters they're swimming in._

 _What she does know, however, is that she loves this little girl._

 _She loves her with her whole heart, all of her soul, every piece of her, big and small. Every broken shard of Laurel Lance loves this big-eyed baby girl._

 _For now, that's enough. Everything else will come._

 _''I had a baby,'' she croaks out, and then, naturally, fresh tears start spilling down her cheeks. Because that is just the way things are right now._

 _This uncharacteristically content look passes over Dean's face, something brand new for him, and he smiles. It's tender and soft, like nothing she's ever seen before. He must be incredibly tired to let that kind of happiness in. ''You did,'' he tells her. ''Laur, you were amazing.'' He moves back over to her, leaning down to cup her cheek. ''I'm so proud of you.''_

 _''Yeah, you know,'' she smirks. ''You might've mentioned that a few times.''_

 _''And I'm gonna keep mentioning it because that was the most badass thing I've ever seen anyone do.''_

 _''You've literally saved the world.''_

 _He leans down to catch her lips in a brief kiss and then pulls away, resting his forehead against hers. ''Pales in comparison.'' He draws away from her, hand lingering on her cheek for an extra second._

 _When he's gone, the door shutting behind him, she takes a deep breath. It's the first time she's been alone with Mary since her birth. She swallows hard and looks at her daughter's face, trying to come up with something to say. Mary is less than a day old. It's not like this is rocket science. It's not like she needs to come up with something particularly memorable but, for the life of her, she cannot come up with something to say to this life changing, tiny sentient alien potato. ''I'm so glad you're here,'' she finally settles on. ''Your daddy and I couldn't wait to meet you.''_

 _Mary wriggles, moves her head to the side, and pokes her pink tongue out. She is staring up at Laurel, mildly interested in the giant weepy lady holding her but probably mostly still wondering what on earth happened to her last night and why she's stuck out here and not in her cozy, warm, womb home anymore. Laurel tries to think of a song to sing her, a lullaby, one of the songs she listened to while she was decorating the nursery, but - strangely - the only song she can think of right now is that annoyingly catchy, wildly inappropriate Flo Rida song that, despite the title, is not actually about whistling. That's embarrassing._

 _In her defense, someone at the local radio station that she listens to must love it because she has been forced to listen to it almost every morning on her way to work for months. It's always in her head now. There's no way she's singing that to her newborn daughter. Mary's going to live a very strange life with the parents she has, living in a city that has some weirdo running around in a green leather suit playing Robin Hood, but there's no reason to start screwing her up right this minute. She figures she should at least give it a few days before her first big mistake._

 _''Uh.'' she presses her lips together and then takes in a breath. ''So, I know we've just formally met and this may seem forward but I'd just like to apologize in advance for my inevitable screw ups as a parent,'' she whispers. ''I promise you, it's never going to be your fault. I'm just a screw up. Luckily,'' she grins, ''you'll have your dad. He's way better at this. He's done this before, and your uncle turned out...'' She trails off, frowning and tilting her head to the side. ''Well,'' she amends. ''We're trying our best, pumpkin.''_

 _Mary is still making these adorable little squeaking sounds. They almost sound a bit like bird noises. She sticks her tongue out again and closes her eyes._

 _Laurel has a dim memory of finishing up the nursery a few weeks ago, putting away baby clothes and toys, stacking diapers, rearranging furniture and the artwork on the walls, and listening to this playlist Joanna had made her for the baby. One of the songs stuck in her head for days. She sang it in the shower, while she was making coffee, hummed it while she was running errands or folding laundry. It stuck so much that she even walked in on Dean singing it in the kitchen while he was making dinner. It's a sweet song. In any case, it's not about blowjobs, so it'll have to do in a pinch. She hums thoughtfully, shaking her head to clear her fuzzy head so she can remember the words._

 _''Come with me, my love, to the sea, the sea of love. I want to tell you how much I love you.'' She is not the best singer in the world, she knows that. She's not even as good as Tommy, who will undoubtedly be the lullaby singer in their lives. She can carry a tune better than Dean, but she's not about to drop her law career and start a rock band or anything. Mary doesn't seem to mind all that much. She calms in Laurel's arms at the sound of her voice. Laurel takes this as a good sign, so she sings another verse. ''Do you remember when we met? That's the day I knew you were my pet. I want to tell you how much I love you.'' There is no grand, exciting moment where Mary smiles or giggles and Laurel bursts into tears. Just a quiet moment where Mary opens her eyes and looks up at her mother, seemingly fascinated. It's more than enough._

 _Laurel lets out a small huff of laughter, lips pulled back into a smile so wide it hurts her cheeks. ''You and me, little bird,'' she says. ''We're going to soar.''_

 _Mary doesn't have much of a reaction to that either but she opens her eyes a little wider and Laurel chooses to believe that means she's pleased with the statement. She ducks her head to drop a kiss to Mary's forehead, inhaling her fresh baked baby scent. She is still scared of this brand new world she's living in and she's going to be scared for a long time, but this right here - This is love. Whatever happens next, whatever life brings, it's going to be her, Dean, and Mary forever. They're a team now. They're a family. This isn't a happy ending. It's not an ending at all. This is a start. This is the beginning of something incredible. Something wonderful._

 _She knows that in her bones._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

Laurel wakes violently.

She wakes up trapped in the dark and choking on dirt. It's everywhere - her eyes, her mouth, her nose - and she can't get out. Panic completely overwhelms her senses. She can't find the air. She feels cold, her body shivering uncontrollably, desperate for warmth. There's an unpleasant roaring in her ears, so loud she can't even hear herself gasping for breath. She's drowning.

Somewhere far away, a child is crying and there is a woman's voice speaking urgently. Someone puts their hand on her shoulder, but they can't get the dirt out of her eyes and her throat. Then, finally, a bang; the sound of a door being thrown open and hitting the wall. The ground tilts, and two strong hands grab her wrists, stopping her from clawing at her throat. She doesn't understand why no one will get the dirt off of her. There's all these hands and all these voices, but they won't make it stop. They're not helping her.

Someone is saying her name. At least she thinks it's her name. Yes, it is. A man is saying her name, asking her to come back to him, and telling her that she's okay, that she's safe. She fights to get to him. She fights for air. Wait. Wait, she knows this man. His hands, his voice, the way he says her name. Her husband. Dean.

She blinks, and she's in a dark room, on a bed where there is no cold and there is no dirt. She blinks again, and she's back under the earth, in the ground, in a box, right where they left her.

''Laurel,'' he's saying, firmly and loudly but calmly. ''Laurel, I know it's hard, honey, but you need to breathe. I need you to come back to me. Can you do that? I'm right here with you. You're safe. You're not in the ground. You're in our bedroom. You're right here. You're home.''

She blinks a few more times, back and forth between nightmare and reality before the room slowly comes back to her and she can breathe again. Her vision is blurry and, for a second, she doesn't know where she is or what's happened to her. Is this the nightmare or the reality? She knows Dean and that wherever she is, she's safe with him, but she doesn't recognize this place. She doesn't even recognize this skin. She takes in a few much needed gulps of air, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Her entire body is shaking in both panic and cold, her hands are heavily bandaged, she's sore all over, and she can't remember why. She presses her back against the headboard and closes her eyes, trying to focus on the sound of Dean's voice.

''Sweetheart, I'm with you,'' he practically whispers. ''Are you still with me?''

''I-I'm here,'' she nods. ''I'm with you.'' He lets go of her wrists but she latches onto his hand with her bandaged hands. He patiently allows her to cling to him like a scared child without saying a word, bringing his other hand up to brush hair out of her face.

''Dean,'' a voice says from the doorway, sounding shaky and disbelieving.

She opens her eyes, and tries to find the voice. There is light streaming into the darkened room from the hallway and two men standing in the doorway. They're just frozen there, staring at her. She squints her bleary eyes and tries to put names to the faces. She loved them. She knows that because she feels it when she looks at them. Love is a reflex. It's an instinct. It's a constant. She feels it whether she remembers why she's feeling it or not. She loved the men in the doorway, and she'll love them again. They're family. They belong to her the same way Thea does. But she doesn't recognize them. Doesn't know their names or who they are to her. It's jarring.

Dean hastily waves them away without even bothering to look away from her.

Laurel takes in a few more deep breaths until - oh, god. _Mary_. Her baby. She can hear her crying somewhere else in the house. She's calling for her. Thea must have taken her out of the room when Laurel - When she... She swallows thickly, dread and guilt pooling in her gut. She scared her girl. She closes her eyes again, and the flood hits. It comes back to her in quick, disjointed pieces. The casket, the dirt, the blood, the fear, the pain, the grave. She woke up. She came home. She was dead. She doesn't remember how it happened - if it hurt, if she was scared, if she was alone when it happened, if there was blood - but she died. She was dead, and now she's not.

Her stomach lurches suddenly and painfully as she runs through the events of her traumatic homecoming. She crawled out of her own grave. She exploded back into existence, slithered her way back into the world like a - like a _monster_. Like something out of a horror movie. She screamed.

It hurt. It _hurts._

It was agony to leave, and it's agony to come back.

Her eyes snap open. ''Dean,'' she manages to get his name out through clenched teeth, but can't say anymore. Somehow, he understands her because he dives for the trashcan over by her vanity with lightning quick reflexes and manages to get it in front of her about half a second before she starts heaving.

Over his shoulder, he barks out a short, sharp, ''Out. _Now_.''

She can't see the men in the doorway leave but she hears the door shut and notices the way the room gets darker, the light from the hallway trapped on the other side of the door. In the darkness, she remembers that their names are Sam and Castiel. They're her in-laws. The Laurel she was never would have forgotten them.

There's nothing in her stomach to throw up, so she winds up mostly dry heaving, bringing up bits of stomach acid and the water she drank earlier, but it hurts. She remembers this - dimly. This humiliating, painful part of being alive. There were hangovers, the flu, food poisoning, norovirus, morning sickness, but this is different and it's so much worse. It's like her body is trying to turn itself inside out.

Dean doesn't leave her side once. He holds her hair back for her, carefully and gently gathering it away from her face. ''I know, babe,'' he soothes, when she whimpers and tries to catch her breath in between painful retches. ''I know it sucks.''

Her stomach calms eventually, just enough to stop twisting. She's still shaking and her body feels unsettled, like she's not all here, but it's simply too wrung out to keep vomiting up nothing but bile. Her entire body feels weightless and untethered. She feels outside of herself. As if part of her is still in that grave and it's calling her back. ''Dean,'' she manages to get out, voice hoarse and trembling. There are tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and her heart is thudding too fast, too noisily in her chest. ''What's going on?''

He doesn't answer her right away. He can't even look at her. ''I don't know,'' he admits. He takes the trashcan away and grabs the glass of water he brought her earlier from the bedside table. Because her hands are so shaky and heavily bandaged, he has to help her drink it. If she was in her right mind, it might be mildly humiliating, but she's not.

''I don't understand what's happening,'' she says, after she's taken a few slow sips of water. ''How am I...?'' She shakes her head. ''This doesn't happen.''

''It does,'' he tells her. ''It has before.''

''Not like this.''

He puts the glass back on the table and seems to hesitate a moment before saying, ''It did to me.''

That's horrifying to think about. Just thinking about him going through this makes her feel even more nauseated. People are afraid to die. Humans are afraid of what happens, of the pain, of what may or may not happen next. They're afraid of death when they should be afraid of coming back. Maybe things will be better or clearer in the morning. Maybe she'll wake up and she'll remember who she is. Maybe in the light, she'll really be here. For right now, though, all she's fully aware of is pain and confusion and blurriness. Although that last one might just be because she's not wearing her glasses or contacts.

''You just need some time,'' Dean says. ''You just got back. You'll adjust. And we'll - we'll figure this out.'' He moves like he's going to put his hand over hers but stops, obviously concerned about agitating her injuries. ''That's what we do, right?''

She's not sure if he's trying to convince her or himself with that little speech. Either way, he fails. She gives herself a minute to attempt to stifle the noise of this world she's been thrust back into without warning, and then says, perhaps more demandingly than originally intended, ''Bring Mary back.''

His response is quiet but immediate. ''I'm not sure that's a good idea.''

He may be right about that. She's a broken, shaking mess right now. Still, there is this rush of mama bear rage that sweeps over her and she gives into it so easily, tossing him an icy warning look. She may not be the mother who left seven months ago but somewhere in this house, her daughter is calling for her. If death couldn't keep her from her girl, neither will he. ''I'm her mother,'' it comes out in this scarily calm, quiet hiss. ''She's scared. She needs me. You will bring me my child.''

He raises his eyebrows. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He seems sufficiently cowed. And yet he's still here.

''I'm her mom,'' she repeats, louder this time. ''I'm supposed to comfort her when she's scared, Dean. You can't keep her from me.''

''Whoa, wait. Laur, I'm not trying to - ''

''I sing to her,'' she blurts out. ''I always sing to her when she's upset. It's been that way since day one. I sing...'' She stops, sentence dropping off. Her eyes widen as she slowly starts to realize that she can't remember the words. She knows the song. It's Sea of Love. She must have heard it somewhere. She knows the tune of the song. She knows it was important. These things are just part of her. It's her and Mary's. It belongs to them. It's a piece of her heart. It doesn't leave. But. ''I don't remember the words,'' she admits, horrified. ''I can't remember how the song goes.''

''You will,'' he says, adamant. ''You'll remember everything. I swear. This is - It's the trauma. It's situation specific amnesia. That's a thing,'' he says, which tells her he's most likely been on Wikipedia. ''It's completely normal. You still have your memories, you just can't get to them right now. You _will_. I know you will.''

''What if I don't?''

''Then we'll make new memories,'' his response is quick. He sounds so sure. She wishes she could share his confidence. Her disbelief must show on her face because he stops talking, rises to his feet, and says, without complaint, ''I'll go get Mary.''

He leaves her alone in the dark and she leans her head back against the backboard. She struggles not to implode, not to collapse and crumble right here. She feels like she could. She closes her eyes, breathes, and tries to think. _Dinah Laurel Lance_ , she thinks. That was the name on the stone in the graveyard. That's her. She runs the name over in her head. That _is_ her name, she's sure of it. She knows the name. She just doesn't know the person. _You are Dinah Laurel Lance, she tells herself. Your daughter's name is Mary Beatrice. Your husband's name is Dean. Your parents are Dinah and Quentin. Your biological sister is Sara. Your other sister is Thea. Your grandparents are Beatrice and Richard. You are here. This is your life._

These are all facts. Facts don't change and shift the way memories do. These are things she knows. These pieces of her are sewn into her. She can't forget them. She is made of blood, flesh, muscle, bones, and sinew, but she is also made of love. These people, the family that lives in these walls, this city - that's love. But there are other pieces of her too. Parts that have yet to be assembled, and she can't find them. She is more than her bones, more than love, more than other people. She is her own person with her own beating heart, her own thoughts and feelings and opinions. She just can't remember. It is there. Dean was right about that. The person she was is still inside of her, but she's locked inside of her own mind and she doesn't have the key.

It's frightening to be without such fundamental parts of you. It makes your whole world feel dizzyingly off kilter. It's even scarier to think you might not ever get those pieces back. Because what if she doesn't? What if she left those pieces of herself there, in that grave, and there's no way to get them back? It's a possibility, isn't it?

Laurel Lance has been unmade. Taken apart and erased from the world. That's just something that happened. She can't change it. Just because she clawed her way out of the earth, half dead and broken, doesn't mean she's actually here.

What if this is all there is?

The door opens and she snaps to attention, forcing everything down, eyes immediately seeking out her baby. Mary isn't crying anymore but her cheeks are red and marked with tears and she's hiccupping sadly. She looks tired and scared, not at all comforted by her dad's warm and strong arms the way she usually is. But when she sees Laurel, her eyes widen and she instantly starts squirming, pushing at Dean's arms to get him to put her down.

This, Laurel knows how to do. This is simply an instinct.

She holds her arms out, murmurs a quiet, ''come here, baby,'' and that's all the prompting Mary needs to attempt a reckless dive out of Dean's arms. He barely even reacts, easily keeping her in his grip before carefully transferring her over to Laurel with a warning of, ''Gentle, kiddo. Mom's not feeling good.'' Which is the understatement to end all understatements.

Mary crawls into her lap, adorably careful, and winds her arms around Laurel's neck. ''Mommy,'' she mumbles into her skin. ''You scared me.''

''I know,'' Laurel mutters hoarsely. ''I'm sorry, Mary. I didn't mean to scare you.''

She pulls away suddenly, eyes wide with fear. ''Don't go away again,'' she pleads. Her small voice is so devastatingly panicked and her grip on Laurel's neck has tightened like just saying the words, just acknowledging her fear, has made it worse. ''I don't want you to go away to Heaven again.''

''I'm not,'' Laurel says, voice sharp. She glances at Dean out of the corner of her eye and watches a pained look cross his face. She hasn't asked him yet. What it was like while she was gone. It's not something she wants to think about but it's hard not to. What happened to them while she was nothing but bones in a box? What kind of horrible sadness did she throw them into when she left? What has she done to her little girl? For seven months, she was rotting. Were they?

Grief isn't a damage that can be easily fixed. It can't be fixed at all. Not with time and not with inexplicable resurrection. Grief is a scar, and this grief is a damage she created. Pain she inflicted on them when she left them here without her. This is on her - this hurt, this frailty, this fear that lives inside of her daughter that people will leave and not come back. No, Laurel doesn't know how she died. Maybe it was out of her control, maybe it wasn't her fault, but does it matter? She still did it. She still left. She is the cause of their pain.

''I'm not going anywhere, baby,'' she says, gently this time. ''I will not leave you. Not ever again.''

''You stay with me,'' Mary orders, sniffling.

Laurel nods. ''I'll stay with you.''

''She just had a bad dream, honeybee,'' Dean pipes up.

Mary peers up at him through her eyelashes, suspicious. Swiftly, she looks to Laurel for confirmation. ''I had a dream that a big snake eated me.''

''That sounds scary,'' Laurel says.

 _Scary,_ Mary signs, with a nod. ''You had a bad dream about a big snake too?''

Laurel tightens her lips. ''Something like that,'' she smiles weakly. ''But it's okay.'' Without even realizing what she's doing, she signs _, Everything's okay_. Her fingers work faster than her brain and by the time she catches up and she's wondering how on earth she knew how to do that, Mary has already moved on.

She moves her own little hands to sign a very firm order of, _Promise me._

 _I promise,_ Laurel signs, and then tacks on an, I love you.

Mary, a little calmer, relaxes. She flops against Laurel and wraps her arms around her again, resting her head on her shoulder. Laurel holds onto her daughter tightly, burying her face in Mary's hair and breathing in her familiar scent. She tries to remember the other times she's held her, because this must have been a constant before, right? Hugging her daughter. She must have done it all the time. She hopes she did it all the time. She hopes she was a good mom.

Dean is the one who eventually winds up breaking the silence that had enveloped the room, leaning down to whisper in her ear, ''I have to go talk to Sam and Cas. Are you two gonna be okay?''

Mary doesn't even wait for Laurel's response before she's lifting her head enough to order, ''Okay, Daddy. Go away now.''

He arches a brow, looking highly offended. Laurel can practically see him trying to muster up his dad voice enough to say something like, _Excuse me, young lady?_ Or, much more likely in this case, an incredulous drawl of, _Wow, rude._

Before he has a chance to even try, Mary leans over to him to whisper, urgently, ''Dad. I gotta talk to Mommy. It's girl stuff.''

His lips twitch. ''You've been spending too much time with Auntie Thea.'' He kisses Mary on the cheek and says, ''Don't talk your mother's ear off. You both need to get some sleep.''

She pretends not to hear him. Laurel doesn't know how she knows that she's pretending but she does. It comes to her in this slow, rolling sort of memory. When you tell Mary something she doesn't want to hear, she'll pretend not to hear you. Dean isn't great at telling the difference between when she genuinely can't hear and when she's faking it because she's got him wrapped around her little finger. Laurel could always tell. She can remember _Mary Winchester, I know you heard what I said._ She remembers _I know you can hear me, Mary Beatrice_ and Mary's stubborn and giggly response of _Uh-uh, Mommy. Got bad ears._

''I'll send Thea in to check on you two in a few minutes,'' Dean tells her, snapping her out of the short, burst of memories.

She manages a nod. She admits it's nerve wracking to watch him walk out of the room and leave her alone with Mary. She does know how to do this. She knows how to be a mom. She's done it before. It's a code written on her bones. It's just that this isn't the Mary she left. It has been seven months. That's forever to a three year old. A four year old, she reminds herself. Mary is four now. She worries it might be too long. What if she's different? What if Mary's different? What if she's not the mother Mary needs anymore?

Once Dean is gone, Mary looks at Laurel, locks eyes with her, and says, in her most serious voice, ''Mommy.'' She pauses dramatically, and Laurel holds her breath, waiting for questions she cannot answer. Mary heaves out a put upon sign and says, all in one breath, ''Daddy won't let me get a kitty.''

Laurel exhales shakily, relieved. She doesn't know if the ache in her throat is a laugh or a cry. ''Daddy's allergic, little bird,'' she says, automatically.

Mary groans, but moves past it incredibly quickly. Because she's four. ''Kitty can stay in my room. I'm gonna name it Nemo.''

Laurel laughs quietly. Somehow, perhaps through mom superpowers, she manages to get Mary lying down under the covers. ''But then Daddy wouldn't be able to come into your room anymore.''

This, apparently, had not occurred to Mary because her eyes widen in horror at the thought.

Laurel lies down on her side so she can face Mary. ''I don't think we can get a kitty, sweetie.''

Mary sighs again, but doesn't say anything else for a long time. She looks like she's thinking so Laurel doesn't bother her. She watches her kid's brows furrow in concentration and can't help the sleepy smile that spreads across her face when Mary puts her hands behind her head, looking completely relaxed and at home. ''No kitty,'' Mary says, finally. Then her eyes light up and she turns to look at her mom. ''But what about bees?''

''Bees?'' Laurel arches an eyebrow. ''Why bees?''

''I love bees. Honey bees. Like me,'' she beams. ''Uncle Cas taught me about them.''

''He did?''

''Yes. Honey bees are good and _important_.''

''Really?'' Since she can't sing their song right now, Laurel scoots closer to her daughter and relaxes against her pillow. ''Can you teach me?''

.

.

.

The next time Laurel opens her eyes, it's light out, and her entire body hurts. Everything that happened last night is still fresh in her mind but everything else is still missing. She'd fret about that but right now she's still stuck on how physically awful she feels. She feels like she's been hit by a truck. All of the energy and adrenaline she had last night has drained right out of her and now she's just some broken husk of a person who punched her way out of her own casket. That is not a normal thing. That is not something human bodies were ever meant to go through. She feels like she has been demolished. She's honestly not even sure how she's even standing right now.

Logically, she never should have made it out of the ground.

Laurel forces her heavy eyelids open and blinks against the sun. The alarm clock on the bedside table says it's nearly ten in the morning. Reluctantly, she drags herself up into a cautious sitting position and glances beside her. Mary and Thea are both still fast asleep. Most of the time, Mary tends to sleep like her dad: on her stomach, hands curled under the pillow, blankets half on half off because she - again, much like her dad - runs hot. But today, she's burrowed under the blankets, on her side, facing Laurel, one hand reaching out toward her mom like she's trying to make sure she's still there, even in her sleep. Thea is curled into a 'c' shape, facing Mary, safely bracketing her into the bed to prevent her from rolling off. Laurel watches the girls sleep for a minute, comforted by the peaceful, steady rise and fall of their chests. Once she's satisfied that they're both okay, she heaves herself out of bed with great difficulty.

She falters on her unsteady legs, rolling her shoulders and trying to shake off the pain. She feels lost, standing aimlessly in her bedroom, trying to figure out what to do next. How does this song go? She must have had a morning routine. That's a thing, right? People have routines. She pulls open the closet and squints helplessly for an embarrassing amount of time before she remembers to grab her glasses. She fumbles her way through getting dressed as quickly as possible. The bra is a struggle, partly because she can't quite recall how to do this properly, and partly because her fingers are bandaged and useless right now. She does succeed in her getting dressed endeavor eventually, throwing on a pair of yoga pants, a threadbare t-shirt that she suspects might be Dean's because it's way too big to be hers, and a hoodie.

She slips out of the bedroom, down the hall, past Thea's bedroom, and into the bathroom that's across from Mary's room. It's funny. She can't remember if she has any serious allergies. She can't remember meeting her husband. She can't remember her wedding or being pregnant with her daughter. She knows the names of her parents and sister but can't picture them in her head. She doesn't even know her own favourite color. Yet she knows the layout of this cozy little house in the suburbs like the back of her hand.

Impulsively, once she's safely locked herself in the bathroom, she rips the annoying bandages off of her hands. They're not bleeding anymore. She doesn't need them. She looks down at the angry red, the dried blood, the smell of Neosporin clogging her nostrils. They are like this because she had to claw her way to air so she could live. Her fingernails are torn away and her skin is sliced because she almost died. Again, apparently. She looks at her reflection in the mirror. She looks hollow. She looks pale, haunted, and unrecognizable. She doesn't look right.

She takes a step away from the mirror, stunned, but can't look away from her ghastly reflection. She doesn't think that she looks alive right now. Just to be sure, she checks her pulse. Nope, she's definitely alive. She takes her glasses off and puts them on the sink carefully, so she doesn't have to see her reflection clearly. Hastily, she turns on the faucet and tries to wash the blood and the sickly, medicinal smell off of her hands. She splashes her face with cold water, clenches her teeth and shakes her head to clear away the half second of panic when it reminds her, ever so briefly, of the dirt.

Once she lets her body take over, it's not hard for it to start moving on autopilot. She may not remember her morning routine. Her body does. She doesn't think about what she's doing, she just does it. It's nice to not have to think for a few minutes. It's only when she's putting the mouthwash back in the medicine cabinet that things go wrong. Her hand reaches for her contact lenses and she comes back with a box of Paw Patrol band-aids instead. She stops, thrown. She rifles through the cupboard and then the drawers, but they're nowhere to be found. It hits her as she's looking through the bottom drawer, slamming into her chest violently. Her contact lenses and solution aren't here because they've probably expired by now. Because it's been over half a year since anyone used them.

Everything that was hers has been pushed aside, thrown away, or stuffed into the bottom drawer. It's not just her missing contacts, or her lotions and makeup all shoved into the bottom drawer, or the way Thea had to dig through the cupboard underneath the sink to find her lavender shampoo last night. It's everything. She is a stranger in her own home, her own skin, her own life.

She doesn't live here anymore.

And this is just the start. Whatever life she had before the dirt, it's gone. It's all been stripped away from her. Did she have a job? Friends? People that counted on her? Can she get any of that back? That seems unlikely. What is she supposed to do now? Start over?

Laurel sighs and grabs her glasses, accidentally knocking something else resting on the porcelain into the sink. She puts her glasses on and snatches up the long silver chain with the key shaped pendant. She was wearing this last night. It's a beautiful necklace. It's a little rusted now and it's caked in dirt, but it's pretty. It must have meant something to her. Been important to her somehow. Her engagement ring and wedding ring had been taken off of her but this necklace she had gone to her grave with. Why?

She holds it up to the light and tilts her head to the side. She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths, attempting to relax her body enough for something to potentially slip through whatever blockage is up in her mind. Nothing happens. She tries again. She thinks it might have been a gift. Okay, that's a start. A gift from Dean? No. Not Dean. Her sister? No. Not her either. Someone else. It was either her birthday or Christmas. She thinks birthday. Yes, that sounds right. It's cold at Christmas and she hadn't been cold. Christmas is someone else's birthday. Her birthday is in - It's in April. She was turning twenty-eight. Someone fastened the necklace around her neck. He was laughing. She hugged him.

''This is beautiful,'' she had said. ''Thank you.''

''Hey,'' Dean had called out from somewhere else. ''Shouldn't the husband be the one to buy the jewelry?''

''The husband went gooey sentimental this year,'' another voice had said. The voice is so familiar. She knows that voice. His name is right there on the tip of her tongue. ''I could buy her all the jewelry in the world and your gift would still be better. Dude, _I_ cried when you gave her that thing.'' Then he looked at Laurel and said, ''Seriously though, you like the necklace, right? I can return it if you - ''

''Tommy,'' she had said, placing a hand on his chest. ''Stop. I love it.''

She opens her eyes. Oh, god. _Tommy_. How could she have forgotten Tommy? He was her best friend. He was more than that. He was her family. He was her steady hand in the years after... After... After something. He died for her. He died _because_ of her. She slips the necklace in her pocket, out of sight but close, and tries her best not to break down. If there is one thing she would like to forget, it's the way Tommy looked when she finally managed to crawl her way through the wreckage of her empire to get to him. Figures it would be one of the first things she remembers in vivid detail. She doesn't know if spectacularly bad luck is a regular thing in her life but given the current state of everything, she's willing to bet it is.

She can't deal with this right now. She loved Tommy. She and Dean both loved Tommy so much. He was _theirs_. She's glad she remembers him. He's an important part of her that she doesn't ever want to lose. But it hurts. He died. He died, and he took her with him.

There's this image of him in her head from the day he died. It was earlier in the day, before everything happened, and he must have been over to see Dean and Mary because when she got home, he was just leaving. She remembers now. She remembers how tired she was, the brief conversation they'd had about his deteriorating relationship with someone named Oliver and the decision he had made to work for his father (she's not sure who his father is but her blood boils at the thought of him). There was an apartment. She stood in the doorway and called after him, reminding him that they had a lunch date for the next day. She remembers how he turned his head, threw her a cheeky grin, told her he wouldn't miss it for the world, and then he turned away and he was gone.

She's kept that moment, that image of him, of that last brilliant smile, in her head ever since. She knows that now. She doesn't understand how she could have forgotten. She's tried to use that last smile to replace the image of him broken and bleeding in the debris. She also remembers that she kept that standing lunch reservation. It was for every other Thursday at noon at this place called Bella's. For months, she went alone and never told anyone. She remembers when she stopped breastfeeding Mary so she could take the anti-depressants and the sleeping pills she had been prescribed, she stopped ordering food for lunch and started ordering wine. Pinot Noir, to be specific.

She grimaces, swallowing thickly. She doesn't think wine is a good memory. She also has this distinct, unnerving feeling that Tommy's lifeless body isn't the only one she's cradled in the dark. She has this vague recollection of sticky blood on her hands, wet pavement on her knees, leather crinkling in her fingers, and screaming and screaming and screaming.

She tries to shake it off. She doesn't want these memories. These are not memories of a life. These are memories of pain. She wants to remember what it felt like to hold her daughter for the first time. She wants to remember falling in love. She wants to remember how it feels to laugh. Is that so bad? Does that make her selfish?

Laurel blows out a breath and pads out of the bathroom and down the hall, in the direction of the kitchen. She can hear voices and the sound of people moving around. Spoons clinking around in coffee mugs, bacon sizzling, coffee brewing. She can't decide if the smell of coffee and bacon is making her feel hungry or sick. Both, maybe. She doesn't enter the kitchen. Can't quite bring herself to face them. She hangs back, just outside of the door, and listens to their conversation.

''And you're sure this is her?'' A voice asks. Her mind works overtime, trying to identify the voice and determine if that is Sam or Cas. She eventually settles on Sam, though she could be wrong.

''She passed all the tests,'' Dean says. He sounds tense, like he's sick of answering that question. Or like he doesn't want to entertain the possibility of there being another answer to it.

''Dean,'' the voice - Sam - says gently. ''You want this to be her. I get that. But - ''

''It _is_ her.''

''Well, what about Siren?''

'' _Dinah_ ,'' a warning hissed out through clenched teeth, ''is in that stupid fucking Geneva Convention violating pipeline.''

''Are you absolutely certain?'' Another voice - a deep, gravelly voice - asks. Cas. She feels confident with that guess.

''I called Cisco and made him go down there and check at four in the morning just to make sure,'' Dean sighs. He sounds tired. ''He was cranky and he still hates me for what I did to Caitlin last month, but he did it. I could hear her telling him to fuck off in the background. I'm sure. This isn't a con. This is Laurel.''

If she's being honest, she's almost a little irked by how sure he sounds about that. She thinks he should be more skeptical about this. It's dangerous that he's not. Skepticism and disbelief are the safety protocols, right? They should be. She's still skeptical about this, to be honest. But he's thrown all of himself into passionately, 100% believing that this is her. He wants so badly for what he lost to be standing here, whole again. She's not looking forward to his reaction when he finds out she can't be that person again. She's not the wife or the mother or the friend who died seven months ago. She is not whole. She's something new, something fractured. Laurel went into that grave. She thinks something else might have come out.

She doesn't go into the kitchen. She turns away from their voices and heads in the opposite direction, to the back of the house and the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard. It's disorienting at first. She steps out into the late morning air and immediately stumbles, blinded and overwhelmed by the brightness of the sun and the unbearable noise of life. She holds her hand up to block the sun, squinting and blinking against the light.

There are birds chirping in the trees, cars driving past somewhere in the distance, and a lawnmower starts up in one of the neighboring yards. The sounds are startling and she has to force herself to breathe, to relax. She slowly shuffles her body, achy from disuse, further out into the chilly air. She leaves the safety of the back porch and wanders out into the yard because she wants to feel the grass between her toes.

There is an apple tree in the backyard. There's a garden, a shed with a kiddie pool leaning up against it, patio furniture on the deck, and toys scattered around the crunchy, frost tipped grass. Laurel does not recognize any of these things. None of it triggers any memories the way the necklace did, the way her daughter and husband did. None of this feels like it belongs to her. This place was her home once. It was her shelter. She can remember how to move through the house without getting lost but she can't remember _living_ in it.

Then again, maybe she just didn't spend that much time in the backyard. Maybe if she goes and stands in the kitchen, it would trigger something. Maybe she spent a lot of time cooking or baking or something. Maybe she baked pie with the apples.

She looks up at the apple tree. She watches the birds. The sunlight is coming through the branches, silhouetting the birds and making everything glow with the warm light. It's gorgeous. She lets her eyes slip shut and just stands there for a moment, basking in the sunlight, in the stillness. She feels the icy grass under her bare feet, the light breeze combing through her hair, and she breathes evenly for the first time since she opened her eyes to darkness and panic.

 _Sweetheart, I'm with you_ , Dean had told her earlier, before the sunlight, when she was lost in the dark. _Are you still with me?_

She opens her eyes. She considers the question. She was here before. She can be here again. Memories or not, there will always be the sun. It has to rise every morning, and so does she. What right does she have to do anything less?

Laurel looks away from the apple tree. The birds are still singing in the trees. The neighbor is still mowing his lawn. Life is still moving, still going. The world is still spinning, and nobody in this neighborhood knows what happened. Nobody knows the dead rose last night. She steps away from the apple tree and trudges through the grass over to the garden. She makes an attempt to remember if this is hers or Dean's, how important it was, what was in it, but she gives up pretty quick. It doesn't matter anyway. The garden isn't much of a garden anymore and not just because of the cold weather. Everything is wilted, overgrown with weeds, and the flowers are all dead. She crouches down and moves her hand through the weeds without focus. It's a shame. This was supposed to be a place of life.

She tries to picture herself gardening. She tries to see herself right here, kneeling in the grass, in the warm sunlight, wearing sunscreen, one of those big sunhats, and gardening gloves. She can see it. She just doesn't know if she can trust that memory. Is it a memory or a dream?

She looks at the garden. She gives it a minute to see if she suddenly has some big recollection of how to fix this, how to bring this place back to life. Nothing comes to her. Her head is quiet. The only thing she can hear are the birds and the sound of -

Wait.

She stiffens, inhaling sharply at the familiar feeling of eyes on her. She swallows. She doesn't even have to turn around to know who is standing there. She clears her throat, just to make sure her voice will work when she attempts to speak, and rises to her feet. She turns, slowly, eyes finding him standing on the deck. He looks pale in the morning light. He looks like he needs to get some sleep. He still looks awed to see her standing, breathing, blinking, illuminated by the sun behind her.

They don't say a word to each other. No greeting, no questions, no answers, nothing. She's grateful. She wouldn't even know what to say. For a brief moment in time, he seems content to just look at her. Dean is still standing on the porch, closer to home, and Laurel is still standing by the garden, farther away.

He's the first one to break the eye contact. He looks away from her, hesitates, and then he spins on his heel and goes back inside. Which is...strange. She feels a little indignant about that.

But, yeah, okay, sure.

This is a weird situation. She's a mess. He's allowed to be too. His emotions are just as valid as hers. She turns back to the garden, helpless and wondering if this whole coming back to life thing will help or hurt her family. It's not like this just affects her. It's all of them. It's Dean, it's Mary, it's everyone who had to suffer through losing her and now has to suffer through getting all of these wrecked, sharp pieces back.

The back door slides open and when she whirls around, Dean is striding towards her, holding a heavy jacket and a pair of slippers. ''Laur,'' he says. ''Come here. You're shivering.''

''Oh.'' She lets him wrap her up in the big winter jacket. ''Right.'' Because people get cold. That's a thing that happens. Human bodies are fragile and have to be taken care of. ''Did...'' She pauses and allows him to start leading her back over to the deck. ''Did I garden?''

''You did,'' he nods. He helps her up onto the deck and pulls over a chair, gently pushing her down into it. ''You always wanted to have fresh flowers in the house, so you decided to start your own garden.'' He puts the slippers on her feet and sits down on the chair across from her.

''Everything's dead,'' she mumbles, drawing her knees up to her chest. She has to admit the jacket and slippers do feel nice. She liked the cold grass because it felt like icing her still sore feet, but this is also pleasant. She likes the warmth.

''That's my fault,'' he confesses. ''I tried to keep up with it after you...'' He doesn't say the word. She wonders if that's for her benefit or if he has spent seven months unable to say the words 'died' or 'dead' or 'gone' or even the gentler term of 'passed away.' ''I didn't know what I was doing.'' He leans forward, elbows on his knees. ''You never told me. I never asked how to do this without you.''

She gets the feeling he's not just talking about gardening. ''Dean.'' She grasps his hand and squeezes gently, trying to give him something she's not sure she remembers how to give. It's an automatic response. Her body just does it. Like brushing her teeth or holding Mary close. He's hurting. He's in pain. She wants to make it stop. ''It doesn't matter now,'' she tells him, even though it does. It all matters. Every bit of it.

He seems to recognize this because he doesn't look like he believes her. He also doesn't correct her. He doesn't remind her that everything matters because everything hurts. He looks grateful for the lie. He glances down at her hand holding his and, like a switch has been flipped, he changes right back to caretaker. ''Hey.'' He takes her other hand, extremely careful. He seems to think she's the most fragile thing he's ever held. ''Sweetheart, what happened to your bandages?''

She shrugs, unconcerned. ''I took them off.''

''Laurel,'' he says, ''you're hurt. You have open wounds.''

Abruptly, she pulls her hands away from him and holds them to her body protectively. It's an irrational panic, maybe even childish, but she doesn't want him to put those bandages back on her. They made her feel confined and restricted. It felt like her hands were tied. She couldn't even drink a glass of water by herself. ''I didn't like them,'' she says stubbornly.

''I know you didn't like them but - ''

''I don't want them back.'' She shakes her head firmly. ''I need my hands.''

''You still have your hands,'' he assures her. He's speaking to her with this calm, patient, quiet but firm tone of voice that sounds unusual for him. It takes her a second to realize he's speaking to her like she's Mary. It is somewhat patronizing but given the fact that her breathing has sped up and she's about forty-five seconds away from full blown hysterics for no fucking reason at all, it's also probably necessary. He's approaching her like a wild animal because she is one right now. ''Don't have a panic attack,'' he says, with a half hearted smile. He scoots his chair closer to her and brings his hands up to rub at her temples with his index and middle fingers.

It feels weirdly familiar, like they've been in this position before. It does feel nice. It's oddly relaxing, too. The panic doesn't instantly drain away but it starts inching back into whatever dark cave it lives in inside of her. She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths to quell the ridiculously unnecessary panic in her chest. ''I used to have panic attacks?''

His prolonged silence is answer enough. ''Every now and then. Is this helping?''

''Yeah. Did you - Did we used to do this a lot?''

Again, a pause. ''I wouldn't say a lot,'' he says. ''Sometimes. If you needed a little help.'' It's a half answer at best. When he draws his hands back after a minute or two, the loss of contact is disappointing, but she doesn't have a panic attack and her breathing is easier. ''We won't do it like we did before,'' he tries. ''We'll only put band-aids on the worst of it, leave the rest, and just keep the area clean. Does that sound good?''

She gives him a slow nod. She doesn't bother saying anything. If she opens her mouth, she's just going to sound like a stammering, scared idiot. She looks down at the deck and tries to rein herself in. He doesn't bother her but when she risks a glance at him, he looks like he's trying to restrain himself from asking her if she's okay. ''All right,'' she offers. ''We can do that.''

''Good,'' he says. ''That's good. So, uh, how are you feeling otherwise?'' When she doesn't answer, he scoots his chair closer to her and prods, carefully, ''Laurel.''

She considers lying to him so he won't worry. She could tell him that she's feeling better. That she's slow and weak right now but getting better. Or she could tell him the truth. She feels shaken, confused, and scared. She's sore all over, every part of her aches, and she feels sick to her stomach. Not unlike a hangover. Her hands sting. Her body feels hollow and warped. She doesn't trust that she's actually here. She could tell him, warn him, that she's not sure she can be the woman he loves anymore. She could tell him that what came out of that grave isn't what he put in there and he needs to lower his expectations. She could tell him any of these things - a harmless lie or the brutal truth. But she doesn't particularly want to say any of these things, so she doesn't.

''Tommy's dead,'' she blurts out. She looks up at him, trying to gauge his reaction to that. It comes out in this harsh, blunt deadpan. He flinches. She grimaces at her own lack of tact. ''Last night.'' She shifts in the seat, pulling the sleeves of the jacket over her hands. ''I asked you to call him. But he's dead. I remembered that. I saw my necklace in the bathroom - the one he gave to me before he died - and I - I remembered him. I remembered he died.''

''He - yeah,'' he ducks his head. ''I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to...'' He looks back up at her. ''It's bullshit that he's not here,'' he says, straightforward and still, even after all of these years, frustrated. He was so angry with Tommy for dying. He was vehement that he was on his way to her that night, that he should have been the one to risk his life and run into that crumbling building for her, that Tommy should have stayed out of it, should have stayed home, should have stayed safe, not because of some macho 'she's my wife and I own her' crap but because he also loved and lost Tommy. She remembered that when she remembered Tommy. With the memories of his life came the memories of the blast crater he left behind.

She lowers her chin to her knees and watches him. She doesn't say anything. She just listens to the birds. ''Do you - Do you remember anything else?'' He asks, hesitantly.

She shrugs again. ''I don't know.'' She raises her head and puts her knees down, folding her hands in her lap. ''There are bits and pieces,'' she admits. ''Some things I just know. The way home. You and Mary. I know my parents' names. I know I have a sister named Sara. But I don't remember what she looks like. So much is missing.'' She looks at the wounds on her hands and furiously tries to blink away the tears gathering in her eyes. The salt would sting if the tears dripped onto her wounds and she's most likely dangerously dehydrated right now so she'd like to keep the tears in, if at all possible. ''I don't know how to get it back.''

''Maybe you just need a trigger,'' Dean suggests. His hand has reflexively moved to her knee. ''You said you remembered Tommy after you saw your necklace, right?''

She sniffles and pulls her sleeve over her hand again so she can wipe her eyes without hurting her injuries. ''I guess.''

''Laurel, you will get it back.''

''Will I?''

He can't answer that.

She sits back in her chair. She looks him over. You know, she does remember him. There is something in her head about him that's not completely locked away. Everything's sort of fractured right now but she'll get a glimpse of him in her mind's eye, these quick flashes of him doing completely mundane things like standing in the kitchen, lying in bed, walking into a room, holding a baby, and in every one of these out of context not-quite-memories, he is looking at her and he is smiling. It's nice. It's love. She likes the way he looks at her.

He's in love with her, and she's in love with him too. It's just terrible that she can't remember their story. Everyone has a story. Nobody should have to forget theirs. She does know that she loved this man so incredibly deeply. She still does. And she is so very sorry for what she's about to do.

''Dean.'' She says his name clearly, without hesitance, and it does not feel at all strange on her tongue the way other names do. ''How did I die?''

He doesn't look surprised by the question nor does he look eager to share. She gives him some time to formulate an answer. ''You'd had surgery,'' he says. ''There were...complications.''

''What does that mean? What were the complications?''

The pause before his answer is longer this time. ''You had...'' He scrubs a hand over his face. ''It was an embolism. It went - I don't - to your brain? Your heart?'' He looks, suddenly, haggard and beaten down. She has to squash down the instinct to tell him to stop, to go back to bed and sleep, to forget she ever asked. ''I don't know exactly. I'm sorry,'' he exhales. ''I'm fuzzy on the details. I should have asked more questions. I know the doctor tried to explain it to me but I -I honestly can't tell you what she said. I was underwater.''

She takes that in for a minute, licking her lips. An embolism would have been quick. Maybe it didn't hurt too much. Maybe she didn't suffer. Except - ''What was the surgery for?''

He looks at her silently for a long time until it becomes unnerving. ''You were stabbed with an arrow. It punctured your right lung. They had to go in to fix it.'' He says it fast and clinically. Like he's worried that if he takes more time to explain, if he thinks about the words, he'll break down.

She's not sure how to react to that. She feels like she should be surprised by that because it's an absurd thing to have happened. Why was she stabbed? Why an arrow of all things? She's somehow not surprised at all.

''Do you remember Damien Darhk?'' Dean rubs his hands together. The sunlight catches his wedding ring and, instinctively, her hand flies up to the chain around her neck.

She runs the name through her head and tries to put a face to the name but nothing comes up other than a disconcerting but brief moment where it feels like she's choking. It passes before she can even bring a hand to her throat, so she brushes it off and shakes her head.

''He was a bad person and you were trying to stop him.'' That seems like an oversimplification. She gathers there's probably more to the story, but whatever. She doesn't need to know the intricate details of who her murderer was at this point. ''He was a piece of shit who didn't fight fair and he thought he was indestructible. He wasn't.''

''But he got me.''

''Only because he cheated. He was a coward.''

There's that choking feeling again. ''You keep saying was,'' she points out. ''Is he dead?''

''Incredibly dead,'' he confirms.

That's an interesting detail. Something stirs in her gut when she sees the look in his eyes. ''Who - Who killed him?'' It's an unnecessary question, of course. She already knows.

Dean lowers his head and she notices the way he brushes his thumb over his wedding ring. He doesn't verbally answer her, but when he slowly lifts his head to meet her eyes and she sees the look on his face, it's answer enough.

''You killed him.'' It's not a question.

He blows out a breath. ''I know you probably don't agree with what I did,'' he says, tiredly. ''But I couldn't let him - ''

''He's really dead?'' She cuts him off. ''He's gone?''

He clenches his jaw. ''He's gone.''

She nods. ''Good.'' If he's surprised by that, he doesn't show it, although she swears she sees a bit of relief in his eyes before he looks away. She tilts her head to the side. ''How did you do it?''

He frowns. ''Does it matter?''

It does. She's not sure why but it does. ''Yes.''

''I stabbed him in the lung.''

A vengeful smirk crosses her lips and she looks down so he can't see it. ''That's poetic.''

''I thought so.''

''Um,'' she clears her throat. ''I know this is going to sound strange but do you know if he made me beg? Before he - Before. Did he make me beg for my life?'' It's an odd question. She's aware of that. It might also be unimportant in the grand scheme of things. It's hard to explain. She has this vision in her head of some evil villain twirling his mustache and torturing her and laughing and making her beg for her life before slaughtering her and it makes her skin crawl. She may not fully understand who she is but she knows, at her core, that Laurel Lance does not beg men to spare her. She hopes she didn't give him the satisfaction.

Whatever those last moments were like, she hopes she was brave.

''No,'' Dean answers quickly. ''He didn't make you beg for your life,'' he says, which is simple. It's the follow up that complicates things. He gives her this small comfort and then his voice hardens and he adds, in this low, eerie voice, ''But I made him beg for his.''

It should definitely scare her. The flat tone of his voice. The lack of remorse. The implication that not only did he kill her murderer but he tortured him first. See, she gets the feeling that this isn't her. There is righteousness in her bones. A sense of morality, of good. In theory, she should disapprove of his actions. Killing is wrong. Revenge isn't justice. All that shit. But it's not that simple. It doesn't matter if she was brave in the end. All that matters is that there was an end. A sudden, brutal, violent end at the hands of some halfwit bad guy. This man murdered her.

Let the punishment fit the crime. You can't murder a Winchester, leave the other ones standing, and have the audacity to expect to live.

Do you know what Winchesters consider the murder of a family member?

An act of _war._

He was living on borrowed time the second he chose her as his victim. She knows that the way she knew the way home. She may have a heightened sense of morality, but there is also a darkness that lives inside of her that she'll never be able to get out. She doesn't have to remember that to feel it. Dean has it too. Darkness calls out to darkness, after all. She wonders if she saw it in him from the moment they met.

Damien Darhk brutalized her. He took her away from her daughter. He stole precious time from her.

She thinks she can live with his death.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. The birds still sing in the trees. A car pulls into a driveway next door. A screen door creaks somewhere in the neighborhood. It is nice here. It seems so soft and normal and idyllic. She was probably happy here. She probably lived a nice life until the day she walked out that door, left her daughter, her husband, her garden and her apple tree, and didn't come back. ''Were you...'' She trails off, swallowing the lump in her throat. ''Were you with me?''

''I - Not...'' He clears his throat. ''Not when you were stabbed. I was with you when you...'' He still cannot say it.

''I'm sorry.'' Maybe it's not surprising that he was with her but she finds the idea of him having to watch her die unbelievably painful.

He, on the other hand, waves it off. ''Don't be. That's where I was supposed to be. I needed to be with you.'' He says it so matter-of-factly.

''Was it peaceful?''

''It was, uh, sudden. You were fine and then you weren't. It was - I was with you. We were talking. You seemed fine. Then you said you didn't feel good and you...'' He swallows noticeably. ''You seized. And then you were just...'' _Gone_. ''I don't think you would have known exactly what was happening.''

Well. She supposes that's something. She doesn't think she would have wanted to know what was happening. ''Thank you,'' she gets out, after a few minutes of silence. ''For being with me.''

The corners of his lips tick upward but the smile on his face is sad and there's a look in his eyes that she doesn't like. ''Where else would I have been?''

She offers him a wobbly smile. It feels foreign on her lips. It doesn't quite belong there yet. Still, she keeps it there. People smile. That's what they do. It seems to have quite the affect on him because he stares at her, eyes watery, like she is something he has never seen before.

He recovers swiftly, moving on. ''We should go inside.''

She takes one last look around, at the peacefulness of the backyard. ''Yeah.'' She lets him help her to her feet. She tries to put everything else out of her mind and she focuses on the feel of his hand in hers. ''Wait. Dean.'' She squeezes his hand and reaches out with her other arm to grasp his. He turns to look at her and she just sort of looks at him for a moment. Drinks in the sight of him.

Dean has green eyes. They're very nice eyes. Kind when he wants them to be, harder when he needs them to be. Soft when he looks at her, even softer when he looks at Mary. She knows what those eyes look like when he's angry, scared, sad, laughing, lustful, surprised, and happy. She knows what his eyes look like when he's in love.

She knows his lips. She knows what they feel like on her lips, on her throat, her shoulder, her thighs, every part of her. She knows what they look like when they're curled up in a smile and when they're turned down in a frown. She knows his hands. They are warm and calloused, strong and safe. They've never hurt her, they'll never hurt her. They used to shake sometimes but they haven't in a long time. She knows what they feel like when they run down her back, her hips, when they roam her entire body like he's mapping her out.

She knows that stubble on his cheeks. Right now, it's just a few days worth but she knows that lazy beard that he usually saves for the summer unless he's just too tired or busy to bother shaving. She knows she enjoys that beard. She knows that shirt, his wedding ring, the freckles splashed on his face and body. She knows what his body feels like when it is against her body. The trembling, the sweat, what it feels like when he's inside of her, what it feels like when his lips and his tongue dip lower, beneath her belly button. She knows those toe curling back arching orgasms.

He rarely, if ever, takes his wedding ring off because he's so proud of it. He hates when people refer to her as Dean Winchester's wife but he gets a kick out of being referred to as Laurel Lance's husband. He is a good father. He is an amazing father. He's a better parent than she is - a far better parent. He always knows what Mary needs, he always knows how to comfort her, help her, make her laugh and smile, even on the days when she's so frustrated with her hearing impairment. They're lucky, her and Mary, to have him.

She knows Dean Winchester inside and out. His heart, his body, his mind, his soul. He pledged that to her years ago. This man, she knows, is hers. She does not own him nor does he own her and they certainly don't belong to each other. They belong _with_ each other. She loves this man, this heart, standing here in front of her. She loved him until the day she died. She loves him beyond that.

These are not things anyone could ever forget.

She's not confident she belongs in this world anymore, but she belongs with him and with Mary. If you build a love like this, create a family, and work hard to keep it then nothing can erase that or take it apart. Not even death. She's counting on that.

''I missed you,'' she tells him. ''I'm not sure where I was when I was gone. If it was Heaven or somewhere else. I don't remember any of it. But I know I missed you. Did you miss me?''

That's a stupid question. He wore her wedding rings on a chain around his neck for seven months and looks at her like she's a goddess.

He manages a laugh. ''Oh, pretty bird,'' he gets out. ''You have no idea.''

She smiles at him. Still shaky but it feels real this time. She inches closer to him and lays her scarred hand over his heart. He places his hand over hers, covering her cold hand in warmth. She'd really like to kiss him now. She considers her next move carefully and then she pulls herself up onto her tiptoes, wraps one hand around the back of his neck, and kisses him. He hasn't given her permission to kiss him and he seems sort of hesitant at first, most likely because he doesn't want to take advantage of her while she's vulnerable. And, yes, she is vulnerable right now, but that doesn't mean she can't give her consent. She is missing memories. Not the ability to give her consent. She knows what she wants and she wants to kiss her husband who she loves very much.

It doesn't take him long to give in, melting and stepping into her space. He moves his hands to cup her cheeks and deepens the, admittedly chaste, kiss she started. She starts out analyzing the kiss. He's a good kisser. The tongue is a nice touch. It's not overly sloppy or messy, but it's there. The abundance of gentleness he shows her is a welcome and lovely surprise. But the analysis ends pretty quickly when her emotions and her body take over. She makes this pleased noise in the back of her throat and curls herself impossibly close to him. This is a kiss that tingles and shivers. Warmth pools in her chest, travels down to her stomach, travels lower and lower until her legs feel weak with it. She can feel it everywhere.

All of that is nice and all, it's more than nice actually, but it's not just that. It's not just the emotions, the love and the lust, or the way her body physically responds to the kiss. It's that when her eyes close and that adrenaline hums through her blood, sending her spinning away, she gets this flash. This lightning fast blinding white behind her eyelids, and it's like something is knocked back into place.

When they eventually have to pull away, breathing shakily, foreheads pressed together, his eyes are still closed so she watches him for a second. She runs her fingers through his hair, gathers her thoughts together, and then says, ''You wouldn't let me take back the dress.''

His eyes fly open. He draws away from her and she watches the realization dawn on his face. ''What?''

''My wedding dress,'' she says. ''When I got pregnant, we cancelled our plans for a big wedding because it wasn't practical. But you wouldn't let me take back my dress.''

''Well,'' he sounds rattled. Also, possibly dazed. Apparently she is also a good kisser. That's good to know. She's going to file that away for later. ''You loved that dress.''

''I did,'' she agrees, because she remembers that now. Her wedding dress was beautiful. It wasn't overly puffed up nor was it super light and flowy, it was like the perfect in between with an intricate embroidered lace overlay and the cutest cap sleeves. It was such a romantic dress and it made this incredibly pleasing swishing noise when she twirled around. She felt like a queen in that dress. ''We got married at the courthouse,'' she keeps going. Her voice is shaking slightly and she feels dizzy from the jolt of just getting this one memory back, a dull headache forming behind her eyes. ''It was what was easy and we just wanted to get it over with. We did everything the way we were supposed to. We applied for a marriage license, jumped through all of the hoops, made a reservation at the courthouse, and we didn't tell anyone. We said it was just a formality, just paperwork, not a big deal. We'd been together for a few years, we lived together, we were having a baby, we were a family. We thought we were practically married anyway. Then the morning of the wedding, I was standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth and you were in the doorway and you told me I should wear the dress. You said it was a wedding dress and we were getting married, so why wouldn't I wear it? I thought it was ridiculous. I didn't even know if it would still fit. But I wanted to humor you, so I put it on. I was pregnant so the dress didn't exactly fit the way it should have and we had to use safety pins and creativity and, like, sheer willpower to keep it closed. I didn't even care. I loved the dress, I loved wearing it, and I loved the way you looked at me when I was in it.''

She scratches her fingers down his stubble lightly. It's a muscle memory thing. She knows he likes it. ''I remember everything about that day, Dean. I remember that when you first saw me in the dress and I saw the look on your face, that was when it sunk in that I was getting married. I remember that we completely forgot that we needed witnesses so we just wound up asking the first two people we saw at the courthouse. It was a - a detective from Central City and his daughter. They were so sweet and happy for us even though they didn't know us. I - I didn't have any flowers so she ran out while we were waiting in line and came back with daisies that she used to make me a flower crown.'' She laughs lightly. Now that the memory has been wedged back into place, it's hard to believe she ever could have forgotten it. ''I remember standing across from you, saying my vows. I was practically bouncing up and down in excitement and I could hardly get the words out. I think the judge was trying not to laugh at me. I was so giddy that I couldn't stop smiling. It wasn't just a formality. It was our wedding, and it was perfect. I remember that.''

''Yeah,'' he says, after a moment of silent gaping. ''I remember that too.''

She smiles wistfully, drawing her hand back and stepping away. ''We were happy,'' she says. ''Weren't we?''

''We were.''

She's not sure why but that makes her want to cry. She pulls the jacket closer to her body with one hand and reaches up to hold onto her wedding rings with the other. This shouldn't be happening. None of this should be happening. She shouldn't have died in the first place. It was unfair. ''Do you think we can get that back?''

''We can do anything,'' he responds, almost carelessly.

''You sound optimistic,'' she points out. It feels like that might be an odd thing to say to him.

He seems to think so too, if the way he barks out an incredulous laugh is anything to go on. He looks out into the backyard. At the apple tree, the garden, the birds, the sunlight coming in through the branches. ''I was never an optimist until I met you. You tend to bring that out in people.'' Cautiously, he steps closer to her to bring his hands to her shoulders. ''Listen, Laur.'' He pauses, licking his lips slowly while he tries to come up with the right words to say to her. ''I'm not - I'm not good at this. I'm not a motivational speaker. I can give you a dirty joke or two but I don't know how to inspire people the way you do. But I need you to know who you are.'' He leans down a bit so he's eye level with her. ''You're a hero,'' he says. ''You, Dinah Laurel Lance, are one of the best parts of this, of all of this. You have a softness in you that a lot of other people don't. Some people mistake it for a weakness. Even I did at first. I thought you needed to be saved or taken care of. I was wrong. Your strength comes from that softness. I can't do that. I've never had that kind of strength. You walk around with all of this unimaginable grace streaming out of you, and it's impossible not to feel that. People fall into your gravity and their entire world changes. You make people better, stronger, kinder just by being around them. You let the light in. You did it for me, for Mary, your sister, Tommy, Thea, even Sam and Cas. You've also done it for yourself. I've watched you rebuild your broken heart over and over and over again, and you can damn well do it again. I'm sorry you don't remember, okay? I am. I hate seeing you in pain. But you're still you, Laurel. None of this changes that. This is just a setback.''

She sniffles. Those are all nice, heart swelling words full of love and sweetness. It's just not that simple. ''I feel like this is a pretty significant setback.''

''Maybe, but, look.'' His hands move down to grasp hers carefully. ''Thing is, babe, it's what happened. We're here. You and me. Right? We can deal with whatever happens next because that's what we do. And I don't need - We can make new memories if we have to. We can do all of that. But you're here. I got you back. Maybe it's selfish, I know it's selfish, but whatever else is coming...'' He shrugs. ''Let it come. If someone out there wants you, they'll have to go through me. I'm not letting anything take you away again.'' He is trying extremely hard to sound tough and fearless and brave. He doesn't want her to be afraid. She appreciates that. Except that he's failing. It's not at all hard to hear the undercurrent of panic in his voice. The memory of her loss is a fresh wound. It's still something that leaves him paralyzed with fear and grief. She hates that. She hates that she did this to them, that she put them through this, however unintentional it was.

She also doesn't believe that everything will be okay now that she's back. She doesn't feel as relieved to be alive as she should. What's happening here - this open defiance of the natural order of things - is wrong. Her very existence is wrong. She is not a miracle. She is a consequence. Something has gone terribly wrong here.

Somewhere under the denial and the desperation to believe that they can go back to the way things were, Dean knows that too.

There's something coming. Something bad. She can feel it, smell it, practically taste it in the air, and he can try but he won't be able to protect her from it.

Laurel doesn't say any of this to him. She just smiles weakly and pulls him in for a hug. When he wraps his arms around her and holds her close, she closes her eyes and tries to find the safety in his arms that she is sure used to be there. She can't.

''Have you called my dad yet?'' She asks, voice muffled against his shirt. She doesn't want to move away from the embrace. She does draw back, albeit reluctantly, when she feels him stiffen.

''Not yet,'' he admits, sheepish. ''I know you asked me to but I - '' He shakes his head. ''Doesn't matter. I'll call him now.''

''No, wait.'' She grasps his arm. ''Don't,'' she pleads. ''Don't call him yet. I don't want... I need...'' She takes in a deep shuddering breath and can't look him in the eye. He is not going to like what she has to say next. ''I need to go back to my grave.'' She looks up at him. ''I need to show you something.''

.

.

.

Laurel makes it through breakfast without any major meltdowns. It's an awkward affair and she knows that there are more important things that they could be doing right now but she refuses to leave the house before Mary wakes up and Dean seems intent on getting some food in her before they go anywhere.

Cas is quick to hug her when he sees her, standing and wrapping her up in this careful, tender hug. He smiles when the hug ends, somewhat suspicious but mostly encouraging. She smiles back.

Sam is more hesitant, staring at her for a long time before he puts the spatula in his hand down and reaches out impossibly slowly to touch her so softly and reluctantly it's like he's scared she'll disappear if he touches her. When she doesn't, he wraps her up in this huge bear hug, lifting her off the ground, and he kisses her hair.

These hugs do feel comforting and they do feel familiar, but not quite enough to trigger any memories. Another thing is that after they've hugged her, they don't seem to know what else to do with her. They're glad to see her, she can tell that, but neither of them seems to know what to say to her and she certainly has no idea what to say to them. She has this urge to apologize to them for some reason. For the shock of her leaving. For the shock of her coming back.

Dean, Sam, and Cas all have this effortless bond and repartee - both familial and professional - that she can't keep up with. They want answers, they want a plan of action, they want to call people, put out feelers, get in touch with their contacts in the supernatural world to see if any of them have heard about anything big going down or if any of them have felt any ''vibrations'' as Cas puts it.

Meanwhile, she sits at the table and tries to listen to what they're saying while Dean bandages up her hands again. She manages to get down most of the water and some of the orange juice that he puts in front of her. She feels like that's a pretty big accomplishment but that's about it. She has nothing to add to the conversation. She can't help them. She tells them as much as she can about what happened but it's hard to get the words out so she mostly just tries to focus on eating.

It's strange to eat. It really shouldn't be this hard. Sam puts this massive plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her, cleaning out the fridge and the cupboards to offer her the option of multiple jams, cream cheese, butter, Nutella. It's sweet but just the sight of food sends her stomach recoiling. She knows she should be hungry. She hasn't eaten since April. She, according to Dean, loves bacon. She should be famished. As it is, her appetite is practically nonexistent and the smell of the bacon is turning her stomach. She figures it's just because her body is still adjusting. She's been out of commission for a long time, her system is bound to be out of whack for a few days. That doesn't make it any less frustrating. She manages to choke down a few bites of egg and some toast, mostly out of pure spite. She's not overly confident it's going to stay down but it's a start. Dean must notice her struggling because he takes the plate away and puts some vitamins in front of her instead, and she offers him a grateful smile.

It's easier to be here, she finds, when Mary is around. Mary comes charging into the room, tripping over her own feet and narrowly - thanks to Uncle Sammy - avoiding a faceplant, and calling for her, with Thea hot on her heels. With her girls around, Laurel can focus all of her energy on them. She slips into Mom mode like it's her second skin, lifting Mary onto her lap and nudging at Thea's shoulder with what she hopes is a playful smile. Both of the girls seem to want to be as close as humanly possible to Laurel and she's willing to roll with that. She doesn't want to scare them or worry them like she did last night, so she keeps a smile on her face, does her best to act normal, and everyone stops talking about what a messed up situation they're in.

Thea is not her child. Thea is not a child at all. She's not at all fooled by the smile or the determination to keep things light. Mary, however, is four. She doesn't understand the tension, she doesn't know why everyone looks so serious or why her parents look so unsettled. All she really understands is that her mother went away for a long time and now she's back. That's enough to make her day.

With her in the room, there is no conversation about how or why, no talk about the daunting task of informing people that the corpse they put in the ground seven months ago suddenly has a pulse again. It's almost, for a little while, like a normal family breakfast. Things are almost okay.

It's not a feeling that lasts long.

Less than an hour later, Laurel is standing in the grass, trying not to lose her breakfast all over someone's final resting place while Dean, Sam, and Cas inspect the carnage of what was supposed to be hers.

She doesn't want to get too close. She knows it's an irrational fear but she's afraid that the earth might want her back. She stands back, a safe distance away, and pointedly does not look at their faces as they look at the desecrated grave. She looks at Dean, just once, and immediately wishes she hadn't. He's crouched in front of her grave with this sickened expression on his face as he slowly picks up the dirty shoe with the broken heel that she had abandoned last night. He doesn't move for a long time. It doesn't matter that he's been through this before. He still looks disturbed by the overturned earth, the splinters of wood, the specks of blood on the trampled flowers. Whatever happened to him when he left his grave behind, it wasn't this.

In the daylight, the chaos of the destruction is quiet and sinister. It's not just the bloody flowers, the overturned earth, and that damned shoe that is sending unnatural shockwaves through her boys. That would be too easy. What's throwing them off, plunging all of them into a stunned silence, is the state of everything else.

Her headstone is in pieces, practically disintegrated on the grass like someone took a sledgehammer to it and just kept smashing and smashing until it was nothing. Only it wasn't a sledgehammer. The same can be said for the ones around hers. Headstones, statues, candle holders, vases holding flowers, everything has been shattered and ruined. They're all lying broken on the grass. Glass crunches under their feet and stone crumbles down around them.

These are - _were_ \- people's memorials. Cemeteries are supposed to be a place of peace and rest for the dead. It is supposed to be a place of respect. All of these poor people, lying under the earth like she was, with grieving family members who come to lay flowers at their monuments, have had their rest so violently, gruesomely disturbed. There is brand new hurt here for the families of these people.

Laurel turns away from the living to focus on the dead. She wanders a little farther away, over to a broken angel statue a few feet away. It's an older statue, naturally decayed from years of the sun and the rain. At one point, it must have been beautiful. Now the head has been broken off and the wings have been cracked and ruined. She kneels down at the base of the statue, yanking the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand so she can wipe away what looks like at least a decade's worth of dirt and moss to read the name. She draws in a slightly gasping breath and when she exhales, she lets out this small, distressed, unbelievably guilty noise that comes right from her gut. The girl here died in 2003. She was sixteen years old.

Her name was Mary.

She picks up a small, jagged piece of what used to be a wing and rubs her thumb over the sun bleached stone. As a mother herself, it's not hard to imagine what this poor girl's parents must have felt. Losing your child is every parent's nightmare. She can't help but think about what she would be feeling if this was her Mary. If she had channeled the grief of losing her girl into making sure she had a beautiful monument that everyone would see when they walked in. If that memorial was so carelessly destroyed. She would be heartbroken. She would be _pissed off._

''I'm so sorry,'' she whispers. ''I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen.'' Maybe she can make this up to the girl's family somehow. Pay for a replacement statue. At least apologize somehow.

She turns her head to look back over at her family. Dean and Sam are still standing in front of her grave, talking quietly. She can't hear what they're saying but she can see that Dean is still holding her shoe. He's got both hands wrapped around it, cradling it to his chest. It seems to be a professional conversation but, after a few minutes, Sam gets this tight lipped, concerned look on his face, and he stops talking. He takes his hands out of his pockets, reaches a hand out, and very gently takes the shoe out of his brother's grasp, slowly tossing it back into the overturned earth. Dean looks at his hands like he's not sure what to do with them, and then, rather abruptly, he shakes his head and snaps out of it. He turns his head, catches Laurel's eye, and she looks away.

Cas is not with them. Cas is -

A shadow falls over her and she looks up at him, startled. She takes one look at his face and that's all it takes for her to realize that he knows. ''Laurel,'' he says, kindly but still rather tentative. ''Are you all right?'' He offers her his hand and she takes it, letting him pull her back up to her feet.

''I'm...'' She glances back at Mary's smashed angel statue. No, she is certainly not all right. There is something very, very wrong with her. She doesn't know what happened or how but she came back wrong. ''No.''

Cas nods like he understands. He probably doesn't. ''How much do you remember about what happened last night?'' He seems like he's working very hard to make his voice sound not suspicious. He still sounds suspicious. And with good reason. ''Do you know what did this?''

She laughs hollowly, bitterly. ''Sure. I know what did this.'' She winds her arms around herself and summons up the courage to meet his piercing eyes. ''I did.''

.

.

.

It's been a shit morning.

In all fairness, most of Oliver's mornings are shit nowadays, but today has been something else. When John had asked him how the meeting with the parks department had gone, Oliver had told him flatly, ''Less than stellar.''

An understatement.

The meeting had been an unmitigated disaster. In one single forty-five minute meeting, the entire parks department had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that they didn't respect him, they weren't planning on acknowledging his authority, and if he cut their funding they were going to fight back as hard as they could. To them, he was unqualified, uneducated, and completely undeserving of the position he was currently in. The parks department has officially gone rogue.

 _The fucking parks department._

Who the hell saw that one coming?

In theory, he is the Mayor of this city. He could potentially just make them respect his authority. Except, honestly, they're not entirely wrong. Which is why he's here sulking instead of storming into the parks department with some poorly thought out speech about togetherness and being a united front for the city. Oliver sighs and digs his hands into his pockets, staring up at the larger than life bronze statue of Black Canary. Of Laurel. Okay, so, it's not perfect. Contrary to popular belief, he does know that. I mean, it's not like he's blind. He has eyes. It's just all that's left. It's all he has left. Laurel has been a part of him in one way or another since he was fourteen years old. It doesn't make sense for her to just be gone.

People say home is where your heart is. Home, for Oliver Queen, has always been Laurel Lance.

Do you know what he has left of his home?

A scarf.

She left it in the bunker sometime last winter. It's two toned, black and green. It's long enough to wrap around her neck a few times and, for a long time, it smelled like her. It doesn't anymore. He hung it on the back of his closet door so he can see it every morning. When he realized her scent was starting to fade from the delicate fabric, when he closed his eyes and couldn't quite get her smile right, he felt like he was cracking. He cancelled all his meetings, stayed at home, ignored phone calls, and drank a six pack. He doesn't even like beer. He panicked. He panicked because there has to be something left of her. It's Laurel.

It's _Laurel._

He can't do this without her. He never could. She doesn't get to leave him. So, yes, fine. He'll admit it. He had the statue built because he missed her. He had the statue built and he put it on the pier where they had their first date because he wanted to go home. He hadn't meant to upset her family. Truly, he hadn't. He'd just wanted to go home. Is that so bad?

''Rough morning, Mr. Mayor?''

The familiar voice loosens the tension in his shoulders ever so slightly and he turns around, smile slowly forming on his lips. ''Sara.''

She grins but it's not her usual infectious smile. It's a little weaker and it doesn't quite reach her eyes. ''Hi, Ollie.'' She doesn't hesitate to step into his arms when he reaches out for a hug. She seems smaller in his arms somehow. She doesn't fit the way she used to. When they pull away and he gets a good look at her, concern begins to nag away at him. She looks skinnier, shorter even, like her shoulders are being weighed down by something, and there are these pronounced dark bags under her eyes. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what that weight on her shoulders is. She keeps looking over her shoulder at the statue. The fragile looking smile on her face can't hide the sadness in her eyes.

''You look tired,'' he blurts out before he can stop himself.

''Wow,'' she drawls. ''You sure know how to charm a girl.''

''Sorry,'' he says, with an attempt at a smile. Gently, he places a hand on her upper back and starts to steer her over to a nearby bench. ''I just worry,'' he tries to sound nonchalant. ''You're getting enough sleep?''

''Oh,'' she shrugs her shoulders. ''You know.'' It's a pointed non answer.

''What about food?'' He asks. ''You're eating, right?''

''God, Oliver.'' She laughs and takes a seat on the bench, crossing one leg over the other. ''You sound like Dean and my dad.''

Neither of those are comparisons he ever wants. He folds his arms and studies her for a brief period of time. Her smile, the one that is meant to be playful and disarming, is cold and unconvincing. There is a hardened edge to her eyes that tells him he should drop the subject. He has never been good at doing things he should. ''Maybe they have a point.''

That's when she drops the smile. ''Here's the point,'' she snaps. ''I'm not a child, and none of you have a leg to stand on when it comes to the importance of self-care. You're all barely alive anyway.''

''Wow,'' he says when he manages to find his voice. ''Ouch.''

Regret pools in her eyes but she stubbornly turns her head so he doesn't see it. ''I'm sorry,'' she says, voice softer this time. ''That was harsh.''

It was. It also wasn't wrong. He can't argue against her point without sounding like a hypocritical asshole, so he just loosens his tie and collapses onto the bench next to her. If Laurel was here, she would know what to say. He's found himself thinking that a lot lately. What would Laurel do? It's not just Sara either. It's everyone.

Captain Lance is stumbling through life slowly dying and drunk, and other than picking him up from dive bars and carting him home on the days Dean doesn't pick up his phone or just plain doesn't want to deal with his father-in-law's drunken verbal abuse, Oliver doesn't know how to help him.

His relationship with his team is becoming more and more unstable. He's trying to juggle his leadership roles as Green Arrow and the Mayor but he's finding it harder and harder with every passing day. His interactions with Felicity are fraught with hostility and snide remarks, John has settled into a continuous and unnerving silence, and Curtis probably thinks they're all deranged assholes who hate each other. He has come to the realization that he grossly underestimated Laurel's importance to that team. Somewhere along the way, when he wasn't looking, she took his team away from him and became the glue. All that's left is her glaring absence now. They are falling apart without her.

He is losing Thea. His baby sister. She's been his heart and soul since the day she was born and he is losing her. More than that, he's losing her to Dean fucking Winchester. Of all people. And he doesn't know how to stop it, how to get her back. He doesn't know how to be the Ollie she needs to fix her hurt, and their solid foundation has started to crumble under their feet because of it. Oliver knows how to die for Thea, but he doesn't know how to live for her. Dean, apparently, does. He can be the big brother she lost all those years ago, the father she never truly had, the mother that was torn away from her, the piece of Laurel that's left, he can be everything she needs, he can take care of her, and all Oliver can do is watch her fall away from him.

Laurel would know what to do. She would know how to fix this. She'd look after Sara and her dad, she'd smooth things over with the team and keep them on track, and she always knew how to bring Oliver and Thea back together. Even with all of this Mayoral stuff, she would know what to do. The truth of the matter is that Laurel had been far more qualified to be Mayor. He hadn't told her but she would have been his pick for Deputy Mayor. She would have been able to help him learn the ropes, help him understand the red tape and the political bullshit, even the stupid parks department she would have been able to help with.

If Laurel was here, if she was standing in front of him right now, things would be better. The world wouldn't be as muffled or dreary. But she's not here. She won't ever be here again.

Oliver leans his arms on his knees and wrings his hands, watching the people mill around the Black Canary statue. His knuckles throb dully, a constant ache these days because most of his sparse spare time is spent with the punching bag.

''I'm sorry I didn't come see you sooner,'' Sara speaks up.

He swings his eyes to her. She looks a little more relaxed, eyes focused on the statue. It occurs to him that this might be the first time she's actually seen it. ''You were with your family,'' he says.

''I was,'' she agrees. ''I was...'' Her lips curl up into a genuine grin. ''It was my niece's birthday. But,'' she looks at him, lips turned down into a serious frown. ''You're my family too, Oliver. I hope you know that.''

He hadn't, actually. ''I do now.''

They lapse into another relatively comfortable silence and he leans back against the bench. He focuses on her presence, her comforting warmth beside him, and he tries his best to be present in this one moment. To just be here with her for a few minutes. He tries, with everything he has, not to wish she was Laurel.

''Can I ask you a question?'' She asks after awhile.

''Sure.''

''Does this city feel like home to you?''

It's an unexpected question. He's not sure how to answer it. ''It's the only home I've ever known.'' Other than Laurel and Thea. ''Does it feel like home to you?''

''I...'' She stops. She looks frightened somehow, and young. He forgets sometimes how young they all are. How young they were when this started. He feels like he's been doing this for decades, like he should be eighty years old. He's not even in his mid thirties yet. Laurel didn't even make it to thirty-one. ''She's everywhere, Oliver,'' Sara whispers. ''You know what I mean?''

It would be impossible not to. Star City is full of ghosts. They walk with him every day. He sits in his big empty loft all alone with the echoes of Tommy and Laurel. He broke a glass the other day because he couldn't get them out. Just squeezed it so hard it shattered in his hand because their laughter, their voices, the image of them smiling and alive, of them cold and dying and dead were bouncing around his skull, festering in his brain like an infection. He stands in his office, posture stiff and rigid with his parents on either side of him, the stench of their blood filling his nostrils, the feel of the judgmental eyes burning through him.

He's not Dean. He doesn't have all these people offering to help him, fawning all over him and pitying him. He doesn't have Laurel's baby girl to look after, to use as a focal point, an anchor to keep him here. He doesn't have the leftovers, the pieces she left behind. He doesn't get that life. He could have. He should have. There is no doubt in his mind that if he had made different choices, if he hadn't been such a fuck up, he would be the one raising Laurel's daughter.

The Winchester/Lance family is lucky. Maybe they don't feel it right now but they are. They have each other. All he has left is a sister who would rather be part of their family than his and a statue that doesn't even look right.

No, Star City isn't home. It's just another island.

He doesn't tell her this. He doesn't tell her any of this. He just says, ''I know what you mean,'' and hopes that's enough. He hears her inhale sharply and when he looks at her, she's wiping her eyes. He doesn't even get the chance to try and comfort her.

''You come here a lot,'' she says, nodding at the statue. ''Don't you?''

Every day.

He shrugs. ''Sometimes.''

She nods but looks like she doesn't believe his nonchalance. He can't read the look on her face. That's bothersome to him. ''He hates it,'' she deadpans. ''Dean. He hates this thing.''

Is it bad that he doesn't care? ''He hates everything I do.''

She hums contemplatively. ''He ranted to me about it, actually. He told me it was disrespectful. I disagreed. I thought it was a great idea,'' she admits, offering him a soft smile. ''See, legends are myths, Ollie. Heroes are false. Nothing real, nothing tangible. We fight our secret wars, stop our secret villains, protect the timeline, protect our cities. We hide in the cracks of time and the shadows of dark alleys, clawing for solace and redemption and some semblance of meaning. I didn't want that to be her. I wanted the world to know she was here. I wanted them to know what they lost. I wanted the whole world to mourn with me because I was so resentful that people could be happy without her. You know? I'd come here and I'd go out in the world and see people smiling and happy, just living their lives, and I'd think, _How dare you_. It seemed so unconceivable to me that people could ever be happy in a world without her in it. So when Dean told me about this statue, I was grateful. It means she left a mark. She was here. Star City's very own beacon of hope. I thought, _she'll make the history books now. They'll love her forever_.'' She smiles sadly and tears her eyes away from the statue. A bitter smirk flickers on her lips before dying away. She looks at him, eyes steady and angry, and says, plainly, ''I was wrong.''

He should have seen that one coming.

She takes longer to elaborate than expected, taking time to come up with the right words, and all he can do is sit there, squirming and uncomfortable, trying to muster up the energy to be defensive.

''I know what happened at the funeral,'' she says, and that's when he knows he's in trouble. ''Do you know that there were people there who didn't even know she was married with a child?'' Her voice is worryingly casual, like they're just having a conversation about the weather. ''That's how intensely private she was. She worked her ass off to be able to separate her personal and professional lives and she did it to protect her daughter and her husband. You destroyed that protection at her own funeral.'' She says it all so breezily. She doesn't break eye contact once. ''She wasn't even in the ground yet and you just stood up and thoughtlessly obliterated everything she had spent her entire life building. Her reputation, her career, her safety, her comfort. You invaded her privacy and you very nearly smashed Dean and Mary's lives to pieces.''

Oliver can't help but try to defend himself, even though logically he knows there is no defense. ''I didn't mean for - ''

''I'm not saying this to be cruel,'' she sighs, tired. ''I'm honestly not. It's just what happened. This is what you did, Oliver. You told the world her biggest secret. You did it without the permission of her family and you did it for one reason and one reason only. To save yourself. You almost cost me what little family I have left when you put them in that position.'' She is still so matter-of-fact. Like she's not sitting here tearing him to shreds. ''The only reason Dean isn't sitting in Iron Heights right now is because someone convinced the police to drop their investigation into him. If they had decided to run with their theory that Dean was the Green Arrow, if they charged him as an accomplice, if they made an example out of him, Mary would have been taken away. Do you get that?''

How could he not? People act like he's somehow incapable of understanding the ramifications of his actions. People bring up what he did at the funeral as if he's some kind of hapless fool who needs someone to explain to him what he did wrong. He knows what he did wrong. He knew it was wrong when he stood up, he knew when he started talking, and he knew when he saw the look on Dean's face. If none of that clued him in then what happened after sure as shit would have. Oliver stood at Laurel's grave and let her husband beat his face into something vaguely resembling hamburger meat and he didn't even try to fight back because he knew what he had done.

But he did it.

It happened.

He made an impossible choice because he was desperate. He made a split second decision because he didn't know what else to do, because he felt helpless and small, and because he needed to protect the ones left alive. And, no. He hadn't, in the moment, thought about how unmasking her would affect her family. Truthfully, it hadn't even crossed his mind. That's on him. He's aware of that.

A lot of this is on him.

''I wouldn't have let them take Mary away,'' he says.

Sara shakes her head. It's not enough. He knows that. ''You violated my dead sister.'' It's harsh and blunt and cruel. It makes his chest tight and his breathing speed up. It is also true. ''You violated the ones she left behind.'' She looks at the statue, somewhat despairingly. ''Now you go and do this. Once again, without her family's permission. In fact, Dean flat out said no, didn't he? But you did it anyway. It's your world, right, Mr. Mayor? Screw everybody else.''

''Sara...''

''Laurel never cared about having her name in the history books,'' she says. ''She never wanted that. She did what she did because she believed it was the right thing to do. She wanted to help people. She didn't consent to being your fucking martyr.'' It's the only real hint of anger she's shown so far. She has said this, all of this, so quietly and softly, disappointed but not angry. It's unsettling; that distinct lack of anger. ''Here's where we are,'' she begins again. ''I'm not asking you to do anything. I am telling you. You will remove this statue and you, as the Mayor of Star City, will offer a public apology to my brother-in-law for the great inconvenience you caused him. I love you, Ollie,'' she leans in close to him, ''but if this thing is still here the next time I'm in town, I will destroy you like you destroyed her.''

It's not even a threat. There's no heat, no warning, no rage behind it. This isn't Dean beating the crap out of him. It's not the devastated, thinly veiled disgust that Thea couldn't manage to hide in time. This is a promise. It's a fact. Sara will do what she says and she won't regret a second of it. Sara can't save her sister, can't bring her back, so she'll do what she has to do protect her legacy and the family she has left.

He releases a breath. Maybe it had been a stupid idea in the first place. He looks at the looming monument, tall and rigid, lacking the warmth, the humanity, and the compassion of the real Laurel. It's not her. It was never her. He always knew that. He just needed something. There had to be _something_. He wanted an image of her in his head that wasn't her bleeding out in his arms or her lying on a slab in the morgue.

Two young girls, sisters by the looks of it, scurry past the bench they're sitting on with their mother and baby brother trailing after them at a slower pace. They are both holding bouquets of flowers and they look determined. They walk up to the Black Canary statue, huddled together, and they tenderly place the flowers at the base of it. Their mother swings the little boy up onto her hip, twirling a daisy in her other hand, and watches the girls from a distance, close enough to hear them but far enough away to give them their privacy. One of the girls rushes over her to retrieve some items from her mother's purse, and the girls add what looks to be hand drawn cards to the flowers, putting them under candles so the wind won't blow them away.

It's an incredibly sweet gesture.

Oliver glances over at Sara. Her eyes have softened at the sight of the sisters - one brunette and tall, the other blonde and short, like the world is making a very clear point right now - but when her lips start to tremble, she tightens them stubbornly and goes stoic.

He wants to tell her that this isn't the first time this has happened. He wants to tell her that every day, when he comes here on his lunch break, there is something new. Flowers, cards, letters, children's drawings, stuffed animals, candles, small mementos meant to honor Black Canary. To mourn her. It gets breezy down here, especially at night, so every evening he has someone from his office come here, box up the offerings, and put them in his office.

His office is full of boxes.

Sara wanted the world to mourn with her, and they have. Maybe not the whole world, but this city? They mourned. They _mourn._ Green Arrow fights for this city as a whole. Black Canary fought for the people in it. And she never willingly left them. Green Arrow and all of his variations chose time and time again to leave, to abandon his post. The only time Black Canary ever left them was when she was taken. The citizens of this godforsaken city have not forgotten that.

Black Canary wasn't just loved. She was _beloved._

He feels bad that he hadn't expected that. He feels even worse that she never knew that. It probably never even crossed her mind that people out there could love her the way they love her.

It's still not enough, is it?

Oliver keeps his eyes on the mother. The girls have placed their flowers and their cards for Laurel at the base of the statue and have moved on. Their mother lingers behind for an extra moment, looking up at the statue. There's a look on her face that he can't really describe. If he had to guess, he'd say she might be someone Laurel saved. The woman looks at the baby on her hip, walks up to the statue, and lays the daisy down.

He looks away. ''They took my limbs, Sara.'' He admits this very quietly. He's been so afraid to say it out loud. She makes a sighing noise and when he looks at her, she's turned away from him, blinking away tears. ''It's been seven months,'' he goes on, ''and it's not getting any easier. It just gets harder.''

''Tommy died years ago,'' she points out. ''Has that gotten any easier?''

No. Not at all. He still picks up the phone to call him on a regular basis. Still calls the familiar number and gets halfway through leaving some mundane message before he remembers. ''I'll take the statue down,'' he says.

''Thank you.'' She reaches out to put her hand on his knee, squeezing.

''We did this,'' he says, without thinking. ''Didn't we? All of this.'' The words don't stop. ''We got on that boat. We didn't care what we were doing. We didn't think about how much it would hurt her. We got on that stupid boat and we killed them all. One choice, Sara. One wrong choice and we lost everything. We hurt so many people. Ruined so many lives.''

''We did,'' she agrees, voice shaky. ''But,'' she shifts. ''If we hadn't, my niece wouldn't be here.'' She frowns, concerned. ''There was life after that choice, you know.''

He laughs. It's bitter and angry. It makes her jumps. He has never made her jump before. Seven months without Laurel, just seven months, and he is already becoming unhinged. ''Not for everyone,'' he mutters. ''My parents, my best friend, the love of my life - they're all dead. Every single one of them. If we hadn't gotten on that boat, they would still be here. They would be happy.''

Sara says nothing for a long time, but he can feel her eyes burning into him. He hears her take a deep breath and somehow manages to make even that sound exasperated. ''You mean the ex love of your life.''

He freezes. He goes wide-eyed and still as heat creeps up his neck until it reaches his ears. ''What?''

She eyes him warily, critically. ''You called her the love of your life,'' she points out needlessly. ''You meant the ex love of your life, right? As in former? _No longer_. Because you've both moved on. Haven't you, Ollie?''

''I...'' He has no defense. He has no excuses. He can't even muster up a lie. He takes in a breath, holds it, and then exhales It takes one look at the expression on his face for pity to completely engulf her. He can see it in her eyes.

''Oh, Oliver.'' She sounds so sad. She reaches out to touch his cheek. It's the same thing Laurel used to do. ''Even after all this time?''

Yes, even after all this time. He's Oliver. She was Laurel. They were supposed to be written in the stars. Luckily, he is saved from answering the question and delving into this supremely awkward conversation by the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket. About a second later, he hears Sara's phone make a short, sharp ringing. He digs his phone out and gives the text message from Thea a quick onceover. His heart sinks into his stomach in dread.

''So,'' Sara says, eyebrows knitting together as she stares down at her own phone. ''Did you happen to just get a text from Thea?''

''I did.''

''And does it also say emergency in all caps with like half a dozen exclamation points?''

His phone buzzes again with a follow up text from Thea telling not only him but the whole team to get down to the bunker asap. Oliver lifts his gaze from his phone, locks eyes with Sara for exactly three seconds, and then they're both up and running.

.

.

.

 **May, 2016**

 _There is blood on the Black Canary suit._

 _It's dried now, stained into the leather. There is so much of it. He can still smell her perfume but the coppery scent of blood has overwhelmed it almost entirely and when he lifts the mangled suit to his face, searching for Laurel, he can't find her there. He can't find her anywhere. The state of the suit still shocks him. It shouldn't. Of course there would be blood and he knows it makes sense that they had to cut it off of her in the ER. But it's distressing to see it this way, reduced to shreds, bloodstained and crumpled. There is a hole in it from where the arrow - his arrow - went in._

 _Oliver puts the suit down on the table and sits down. He looks at the suit. He looks at the duffel bag it's supposed to go into. He looks at the cardboard box he's supposed to put her belongings into. How strange. How wrong. That her entire presence here can be put into a box._

 _He touches the soft leather again, hand lingering. There's an ache in his throat that hasn't gone away for a month. It's been a month. He doesn't want this to be happening. He doesn't want any of this to be happening._

 _Thea was the one who found the suit, after._

 _Somehow, during the chaos and the messy, unrelenting pain of that night, it had gotten lost in the shuffle. Her boots, her fishnet gloves, her mask, they had all been returned to her family before she even got out of surgery, but the actual suit itself had been MIA. It hadn't been a priority at the time. The priority had been Laurel. The assumption had been that it was most likely still in the ER but when Oliver and Thea had gone back to the hospital the next morning to retrieve it, nobody knew where it was. Flying off the handle and losing his mind on some poor nurse who was just doing her job had not been Oliver's proudest moment. Not that he has a whole lot of proud moments. He and Thea had been desperate to get that suit back so after she pulled him, ranting and raving like a lunatic, away from the nurse, they split up to look for it._

 _Thea found the suit. Oliver found Thea._

 _He was in the lobby of the hospital. There were two people standing over by the coffee cart and when he'd heard one of them say, ''There's some kid in the morgue having a meltdown over one of my bodies so I thought I'd give her a minute,'' he had taken off in a run. He skipped the elevator, took the stairs two at a time, raced down the hallway, and wound up coming to a screeching halt when he saw her. His thoughts had been of Thea and finding her. He hadn't even thought about who - what - she would be with._

 _She was standing there, frozen in place, arms curled protectively around the Black Canary suit, next to what used to be Laurel. She had pulled the sheet back to look at her and Laurel looked... It wasn't Laurel. It didn't even look like her._

 _''I couldn't leave her,'' Thea had wailed, anguished, like when he'd had to drag her, kicking and screaming from their mother's body. ''I didn't want her to be alone.''_

 _He'd given her a hug. Folded her into his arms and tried to protect her, to shield her with his body the way he used to be able to do. Neither of them had been able to look away from the body._

 _She bled, you know._

 _Laurel bled in his arms. That is his experience, no one else's. She bled in his arms just like the rest of them. His parents, his sister, his best friend, his fiancée. They have all bled for him, been slaughtered and maimed for him. What is he supposed to do with that? What does one do with all of that loss?_

 _The whole way to the hospital, Laurel bled all over him. He can still feel her blood on his hands, soaking his gloves, under his fingernails. He can still smell it on him. All over him. The memory of her blood won't go away. He remembers that. He remembers all of that. He remembers vomiting in the alley behind the hospital. He remembers being on his knees in the dark, too tired to fight because it was Laurel's blood he had to go wash off him. He remembers wailing too. That's just what happened. He fell to his knees, he pulled at his own hair, he scrubbed at his hands until they were raw, and then he put on his street clothes and calmly walked back into the hospital because he didn't have the luxury of loving Laurel anymore._

 _He remembers every second of that night just like everyone else does because none of them will ever forget it._

 _But it's the way she looked in that cold morgue that won't leave his head, not even for a second. Every minute of every day, the image of her unnaturally stiff body, skin gray, lips blue, hair limp, face slack and unmoving, chest eerily still, lurks in the back of his head. He doesn't sleep much anymore. He can't eat. She won't let him._

 _He looks away from the suit and leans back in his chair._

 _Dean wants the Black Canary suit. He doesn't give a shit about the Canary Cry device but he wants the suit. He had informed Oliver that he was taking it with or without his permission. Said he didn't trust him not to give it to some ''random nobody off the street the second you forget Laurel ever existed.'' Such a ridiculous and insulting idea. As if he could ever forget her. As if he could ever hand her suit, her mask, her title, her identity over to someone else. The only reason that would ever happen is if he has some sort of psychotic break._

 _He doesn't want to hand the suit over to Dean. Selfishly, he wants to keep it here. He feels like it belongs here. He wants to put it back on the mannequin. He wants to put it next to his, next to him, so that he will see it every single time he reaches for that green. He wants a memorial. Dean gets everything. He gets the pillow with her scent on it, her shampoo, her pictures, her wedding rings, her clothes, her unseen but palpable presence, her sweet kid who looks so much like her. He gets the apple tree, the garden, the marriage, the memories._

 _If Dean Winchester gets to have Laurel Lance, why can't Oliver Queen at least have the Black Canary?_

 _Except that John had been clear that the suit needed to go to Dean. ''He's her family, Oliver,'' he had said. ''He should be able to decide what happens to her legacy. Don't you think she deserves to go home this one last time?''_

 _Oliver pulls the black duffel bag over to him and slowly, regretfully, begins to put the pieces of her away. He puts the boots in first and then her tonfas. He folds the suit in carefully, adds the gloves and her makeup, the wig she used to wear, and then places the mask on top. He looks down at items in the bag; this important piece of her identity reduced to what can fit inside of a bag. His eyes catch the mask for a moment and then he zips the bag shut. Just like that, the one and only Black Canary is gone._

 _He gulps down the quickly growing hysteria and grabs the cardboard box off the table. If he doesn't do this fast, he won't be able to do this at all. It's unnaturally quiet here today as he moves around, putting her belongings in the box, cleaning her out. He handles each little thing, no matter how inconsequential, with the tenderness he should have shown Laurel while she was here. It doesn't make the regret and the guilt go away, but it's all he can do. In the box goes a travel mug, chapstick, a pair of heels, a sweater, some workout gear, and some hand lotion. He puts it all in the box and tries not to think about how fucked up it is that someone's whole life here can be summed up in a box full of random crap. It's not even a big box._

 _It feels wrong. She doesn't belong in a box. She deserves to be standing here, whole and alive, smiling, laughing. She had such an amazing smile. She smiled at you, and suddenly there was nothing else._

 _He does another sweep of the bunker, adding a perfume bottle, a tube of mascara that he thinks might be hers, a knit cap, and her worn out converse. She'd been wearing those the night she... He comes this close to keeping them. Or maybe the perfume. Dean would probably notice if her favourite shoes went missing but it's not like this was even her regular perfume. It's just the cheap knock off back up bottle she kept in her purse. He holds the bottle in his hands for what is probably a creepy stalker length of time and then he puts it in the box. There is a scarf and a book over by Felicity's computer. They had both been found shoved in one of the many drawers around here. He walks over to grab the book and the scarf but when he grasps them, two pieces of paper fall out of the book and flutter to the ground. He puts the box down to grab them. One is an old receipt for a coffee and a muffin that she must have been using as a bookmark. The other is a picture._

 _The color drains from his face when he sees it. He's seen it before, of course. She kept it here for a reason. In the picture, Mary is sitting in front of a brightly colored birthday cake with two candles in it, and she is laughing. Full on belly laughter with her eyes squeezed shut and this wonderful, innocent joy displayed so clearly on her little face. Her parents are in the picture too. Dean is crouched down next to her, lips pulled back into this huge smile that looks blinding even just from the glimpse of his profile. Laurel is leaning down to kiss her daughter on the cheek, hair curtaining her face from view, her body language so relaxed and content with her family. But this is a picture of Mary._

 _She looks so much like her mom. She's got a decent amount of Winchester in her, just enough to be noticeable. Like the smile. That's all Dean. But there is no doubt that she is Laurel Lance's daughter. Laurel is in every inch of her. It has always hurt, just a little bit, to look at Mary Winchester. He's not proud of that. It's not her fault, none of it has ever been her fault, and it's not like he resents her existence. He just resents that she's not his._

 _Now it's unbearable to look at her face and see the echoes of Laurel and all of the love she left behind._

 _She used to look at this picture every night before she put on her suit. He'd asked her about it once. ''It helps,'' she had told him with a soft, sweet smile. ''I do what I do to help people, to help everyone, but it all comes back to her, you know? That's just part of being a parent. I'm building her a world. Hopefully a better one.''_

 _He looks at the picture for a long time. He wonders if Mary will remember that. If she'll remember what her mother was trying to do for her by being Black Canary. He wonders if she'll remember her voice, her smile, the way it felt to hug her. He thinks it might be a longshot. Some pieces of Laurel will probably be permanent, but Mary is three. She has a whole lifetime of memories ahead of her and some of the old ones won't be able to stay with her. What a cruel and unfair thought. Laurel was so incredibly, intensely devoted to her daughter, and now Mary probably won't remember any of it._

 _He puts the book in the box and puts the picture on top of it, eyes staying with Mary, with the faceless vision of Laurel, and then he looks away. He curls his fingers around the soft fabric of the green and black scarf. He does not put it in the box. She was never much of a scarf person, but she did have her wardrobe staples. This was one of them. She'd wear this on the coldest days of winter. He always thought it was rather poetic that it was green and black. He holds the scarf in his hands, motionless. He stands there for at least a solid seven seconds and then he hears the elevator._

 _He makes a split second decision to turn around and hastily stuff the scarf into a drawer. He makes it back to the box just as the elevator doors open and busies his hands by needlessly rearranging the items in the box. Mostly in a pathetic attempt to avoid the inevitable unpleasantness. Behind him, someone clears their throat. He bites back a sigh. He had really been hoping Sam would be the one to come pick up her things. At least with him there's only a 30% chance of getting punched in the face on any given day. Should have known he wouldn't have that kind of luck. He turns, bracing himself for impact._

 _Dean is standing there, arms crossed over his chest with this decidedly Laurel-like posture and body language. It's exceedingly unsettling, actually. Guess it shouldn't be. They definitely had an influence on each other. He definitely changed Laurel. Not always for the better, in Oliver's, admittedly biased, opinion._

 _Dean narrows his eyes. ''Well?''_

 _Oliver, who has never been great with self control, just can't help himself. ''Hello to you too, Dean,'' he greets, perhaps too snidely._

 _In return, he receives a growling snarl of, ''Go fuck yourself.''_

 _Nice. Real nice. He does not succeed in biting back that exasperated sigh. So this is how it's going to be now. He's not naive. This is how things were always going to end up between them. They have never been friends and they were never going to be friends. That bridge burned down before it could even be built. Their interactions have been becoming increasingly antagonistic and hostile since Laurel started working with his team. He pretty much knew that they were headed towards openly being enemies. He just hadn't anticipated the circumstances._

 _''Is this it?'' Dean's voice is gruff and impatient as he moves briskly up the steps and over to the box._

 _''Everything I could find,'' Oliver lies._

 _Dean doesn't respond. He glances inside the box briefly and then pulls the duffel bag over to him roughly. He unzips it and rifles around inside, apparently trying to make sure everything is there. Oliver doesn't even bother with feeling offended. It's not an unfounded concern, honestly. Dean picks up the Black Canary mask and pauses for a moment, running his fingers over it._

 _Oliver keeps his mouth shut about the lost look on the other man's face. Despite his dislike of the guy, he doesn't want to kick him while he's down. Even with the lights dim in the wide open space, it's still easy to see that Dean looks like shit. He looks marginally better than he did at the funeral but that's not saying much. At the funeral, he was just this pale ghost of grief and homicidal rage - most of that rage being directed at Oliver - with dark circles under his red, vacant eyes. He looked like just being left alive was the greatest struggle. Or, no, not being left alive. Being left behind. At least now he looks like he might have gotten some sleep at some point and there's some color in his cheeks, albeit very little. ''How are you?'' He can't help but ask. It's a stupid question. He regrets it as soon as he says it._

 _Dean raises his head to give Oliver a half incredulous, half annoyed look like he can't believe anyone could possibly be that damn stupid. It's actually a pretty mild look. Considering. He arches a single eyebrow. ''Well,'' he starts, and his voice is this cold, blunt delivery that, for one little word, sounds tremendously intimidating. ''My wife's still dead. Mary's miserable. I'm stuck cleaning up the mess you've made of my life. So I could be better. Luckily for you, I don't exactly have the time to stick around and take you apart. So congratulations, buddy,'' he sneers, throwing the bag over his shoulder and hefting the box into his arms. ''You got away with it.''_

 _And there it is._

 _Oliver closes his eyes, rubbing at them with the palms of his hands. He doesn't even know what he can say about this anymore. He made a mistake. He knows he made a mistake. What he did at the funeral - he'd take it back if he could. He's told him all of this before. He's apologized. His face is barely healed from the brutal beating he let Dean inflict on him after the funeral. None of it has made a difference._

 _''Dean,'' he makes one more attempt. ''I'm sorry.''_

 _''I don't care.''_

 _''Will you let me help?''_

 _Dean shakes his head and roughly shoves past him. ''I don't want your help.''_

 _Oliver figures he should probably let it go. Dean clearly doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to be here, doesn't want anything at all from him. They are not friends. But Dean was Laurel's, and Oliver should have been better with her, he should have treated her with more respect. He can't undo what he did but maybe he can try with her family. ''There has to be something I can do,'' he pleads. ''Just tell me what to do here. Tell me how to fix this and I'll fix it.''_

 _It's a fruitless request, he knows. There is no fixing this. Dean does stop. He stops, back to Oliver, and he is quiet for a long time. Slowly, he turns back around. Oliver clenches his fists and has to fight to stay still, to maintain eye contact. The look in Dean's eyes is not the crazed, wild, murderous look he gave him before he attacked him in front of her grave. It is not grief. It is a flat, hollow, dark look. It's just this calmly sinister look. Quite frankly, it's creepy. ''You want to know what you can do?'' His lips curl back into his ugly, broken, savage looking smile. ''I'll tell you what you can do, Oliver.'' He walks back over to him, drops the box and the bag on the desk, and swipes the picture from on top of the book. ''Here,'' he shoves the picture at Oliver's chest. ''Keep this.''_

 _That is not what he had been expecting._

 _''You want me to keep a picture of your family?''_

 _''I want you to remember,'' Dean says, tilting his head to the side. ''I want you to look at that every day, just like she did, and I want you to remember what you took from my little girl because trust me, you worthless sack of shit, she's never going to forget.''_

 _Something in Oliver snaps at that and he pushes down the pain, anger flaring in his eyes. ''I didn't kill Laurel.''_

 _''Oh, fucking bullshit,'' Dean snaps. ''You created this,'' he spreads his arms wide and looks around. ''Whatever the hell this is. You came back, you put on that suit, you started all of this, and she got swept away. She got caught in your crossfire.''_

 _''You think Laurel became the Black Canary because of me?''_

 _''I think she wouldn't have been in that prison if you hadn't come back.''_

 _Oliver starts laughing. It's undoubtedly the wrong thing to do and he thinks he might sound like a deranged mad man, but he can't help it. ''If you honestly believe that then maybe you didn't know your wife as well as you thought. She would have put on that suit with or without me. Black Canary never needed Green Arrow.''_

 _''Except she did that night, didn't she?'' Dean spits out bitterly. ''She needed you to watch her back. And what a fucking bang up job you did!'' When Oliver doesn't take the bait, doesn't give Dean the fight he so obviously wants, he shakes his head. ''She didn't need a mask to be a hero,'' he says, quieter._

 _Oliver takes a few breaths. ''No,'' he agrees. ''She didn't. But her whole life was leading up to that mask,'' he adds. ''You know that.''_

 _Dean doesn't have a snappy retort to that. He stands there for a minute, eyes glassy, and then he runs a hand over his face. All at once, he seems to shrink, all that false bravado and anger draining away from him until he just looks miserable and weary. He looks like a widower. ''You know,'' he has to clear his throat. ''Mary had a meltdown last night. I mean, she was inconsolable. I thought she was in pain. I thought maybe it was her ears because she gets these - she has earaches. Or maybe it was a headache because she gets those too. But it wasn't any kind of physical pain. I tried to help her, Thea tried, Sam tried, but nothing was working. I did everything I could for her. I made sure she had water, her stuffed shark, her blanket, her favourite pillow, I set her up in bed with me so she wouldn't have to be alone, but none of it helped. She just couldn't calm down. She couldn't even tell me what was wrong. I just had to sit there with her while she cried.'' He peers inside the cardboard box to inspect the contents, pulling out the sweater. ''Finally,'' he continues. ''She managed to calm down enough to tell me that she wanted to die. So she could go be with her mom.''_

 _Oliver does not know what reaction Dean is looking for. He knows he stops breathing when he hears it. He thinks of Mary on her second birthday, laughing. He thinks of Laurel telling him that she is building a world for her daughter. He thinks of her bleeding in his arms. Of her cold on that slab in the morgue with Thea howling next to her. Everybody's been howling since she left. Nobody can stop._

 _''My three year old daughter told me she wanted to die,'' Dean repeats, as if it hadn't been enough of a blow the first time. ''I don't think she understood what she was saying, obviously, but she understands that Laurel isn't here anymore. She sure as hell understands that she misses her.'' He hasn't looked at Oliver once during his horrifying story time. He's still staring down at the sweater. ''I told her no. I said we had to stay here but that I was with her and I wouldn't leave her. She just cried harder. She didn't want me. She wanted her mother.'' He puts the sweater back in the box, raising his head to look at Oliver. He doesn't even look angry. He just looks empty. ''Laurel's in the ground,'' he says. ''Her daughter is suffering.'' He grabs the duffel bag and the box. ''That's what I know.''_

 _That's all he says. He doesn't try to dig the knife deeper. He doesn't jump to violence. He just states the facts. Laurel is dead. And yes, Mary is probably suffering without her. These are just facts. They also hurt more than fists ever could. Dean starts to walk away, and Oliver lets him. He wishes there was something he could say. He wishes he could make things better for Mary, even for Dean, but he can't. Laurel died. Laurel was murdered. There is no fixing that._

 _''I loved her too,'' he says, because that's all he can say._

 _''Then you don't love in a way I understand.''_

 _It is the strangest and the coldest insult anyone has ever hurled at Oliver, and it stings like hell. He doesn't know what to do with it. He can't even defend himself because he's not sure there is a defense._

 _Dean gets a good distance away before he stops. He doesn't turn around right away, choosing instead to just stand there. Oliver hears him take in a sharp breath and watches him square his shoulders, and then he turns. ''Was she scared?''_

 _It's not a question he wants the answer to. Oliver opens his mouth to tell him not to ask that question. He doesn't want to answer it. ''She passed out.'' It just falls out of his mouth. ''She didn't have time to be scared,'' he lies._

 _Dean doesn't give up. ''Did she say anything before she passed out? You - You were with her. You were with her the whole time. Did she say anything to you?''_

 _Oliver thinks about the blood on his hands. He thinks about the blood in her mouth. The sound she made when the arrow went in. He thinks about the gasping noises, the gurgling, the pain and the tears and the complete and utter terror in her eyes. He thinks about the last thing she said to him. And then he thinks about Dean. It's not hard to put himself in the shoes of Laurel Lance's husband. If their places were switched, if Oliver was the one with the wedding ring and the years of memories, the unendurable grief tearing at his insides, what would he want to know?_

 _''She wanted to go home,'' he says, after a few seconds of careful deliberation. ''She wanted to go home to Mary.''_

 _It's not the full truth. He considers it merciful._

 _Dean doesn't say a word. He gives a short, sharp nod, his lips tighten like he's trying not to shatter, and there is this fleeting haunted look in his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. Briefly, very briefly, he meets Oliver's eyes. Then he turns and walks away._

 _Oliver waits until he's sure he's gone, until the elevator doors close and he can hear it going up, and then he turns and looks out at the empty cave. What he has built here is an empire, a fortress. This place holds power. His power. He has a kingdom, and all it cost him was Laurel. Tommy. His mother. Power is not a home. He would dismantle this entire organization, rip everything out, if he could just have her back. Black Canary can exist without Green Arrow. She always could. She's never needed him. As it turns out, Green Arrow may not be able to exist without Black Canary._

 _Feeling unshakably numb, he retrieves the scarf from where he hastily stuffed it away, keeps the picture of Mary clutched tightly in his hand, and wanders back over to the table, taking a seat in one of the empty chairs. He looks at the scarf. He looks over at the empty mannequin. She had told him that she needed to get home to Mary. That hadn't been a lie. It had been one of the first things she said after the arrow went in. There was blood on her lips, her teeth, leaking out of the corner of her mouth, and she had been near hysterical from the pain and the fact that she was rapidly going into shock. ''I need to go home,'' she had slurred. ''Please, Ollie, please, you have to take me home. I need to get home to Mary.''_

 _He had promised her that she would go home to her daughter. That she didn't get to die on him. Her pleas to go home hadn't been the only thing she had said to him. In the back of the van, speeding to her hospital, with her basically curled up in his lap, her hands pressed to her wound, his hands pressed to hers to keep the pressure on, she had begged and pleaded and cried. ''Please don't make me leave. Please don't make me go. I don't want to go.''_

 _He hadn't known what to say to that. ''I-I'm not making you go,'' he'd tried to say. ''I swear, Laurel, I promise. I don't want you to - I want you to stay. I want you to stay here with me.''_

 _She hadn't heard him. Over and over until she passed out, she pleaded to stay. It was probably only a few minutes - at the most - but it felt like hours. After the funeral, after the beating, John had all but dragged Oliver back here to clean him up. He'd been a barely conscious, swollen, bleeding, slurring mess. He's not sure if the pain had just been overriding his control, if the funeral had made her loss real, or if the guilt had finally dragged him under but it had been the first time he had openly cried. ''Why did she think I was the one making her leave? I would never - I never wanted that.''_

 _''She didn't think you were making her leave.''_

 _''She begged me.''_

 _''Oliver,'' John sighed, sorrowful. ''She wasn't talking to you.'' The words had held a lot more weight than one would think. ''She just didn't want to die.''_

 _A heaviness settled on his shoulders that day and it hadn't left since, the helplessness of that night in April clinging to him. Oliver wonders, sometimes - all the time - if she had stayed, if she had lived, what would she remember of those fragile, bloody moments? Would she remember that he held her? Would she remember what he said to her while she cried? That he tried to comfort her? That he begged too? If she was here right now, would she remember what he had whispered in her ear, those little words, for the final time before she slipped into unconsciousness?_

 _He holds on tightly to the scarf and the picture of Mary._

 _Here are some more facts: There is a multiverse. An explosion of alternate worlds, parallel realities. All these other earths, each one a little different from the next but all of them - for the most part - with the same cast of characters. He knows nothing about these different earths. He doesn't know the people, how they work, how they fight, how they live. The one thing he does know, without a fraction of doubt, is that in every world, in every lifetime, in every single story, every Oliver Queen loves every Dinah Laurel Lance._

 _It's an inevitability._

 _He likes to think that maybe, just maybe, in one of these worlds, one of these lives, she loves him back. Maybe, somewhere out there in this mess of mayhem and loss, there is an Ollie and a Laurel who get to find their way to each other through all of the sorrow and all of the battles and they get to stay with each other. He thinks about that a lot. If they're out there, these alternate versions of them, the ones who had a chance, he hopes they're happy and he hopes they're together._

 _She didn't love him in this world, not anymore, but he can't stop. Every time he tries - Shado, Helena, McKenna, Sara, Felicity - he only winds up loving Laurel harder, deeper, with every damaged piece of him. You have no idea how enraging that is. He's aware of how pathetic that is. How hopeless it would be even if she was alive. How terribly unfair it is to all those other women. And it's not like he didn't love them too because he loved them. He still loves Felicity. Would probably marry her in a second if she'd let him. This is just different. This is his life. It's been his life since he was fourteen years old, standing in the hallway at school getting sassed out by the pretty new girl for being a jerk._

 _Laurel is in his veins. She's in his bones, his blood, the very fabric of his being, and he can't get her out. He's never been able to get her out. She was his home before this, before all of this, and she still is. Six feet underground, happily married to someone else, or flying through the night with him, she is always going to be the picture in his wallet, the best part of him, the love of his life._

 _It's destiny. They were destiny._

 _She's home, for better or for worse, and he wants so badly to be able to go home. He doesn't want to be on an island without her anymore._

 _Oliver pulls out his wallet and digs out that familiar, worn out picture of her. Nine years he's had this picture. It's been nearly a decade since they were together and he doesn't love her any less, hasn't forgotten what it feels like to kiss her, to have her look at him and knock him off his feet. He thinks that is just part of loving her. Once she's in your heart and in your head, she never leaves. Not even for a moment._

 _He puts the picture back in his wallet and adds the picture of Mary, placing her, very carefully, next to her mom. Dean wants him to remember. So he'll remember._

 _He'll remember what Damien Darhk took from that little girl, took from him, as he drives an arrow into his eye socket._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

Laurel stands in the wide open cavernous space and spins slowly, eyes taking in every inch of this place. She's been here before. She has no idea what this place is or why she would have been here, but she's been here. Many times. It seems like a strange place for her, for anyone, to be. But she knows this place. It's not hers the way the house was but she thinks... She thinks maybe she used to work here? Her eyes find the leather suits displayed so proudly and arrogantly on the mannequins.

She glances over at the other people in the room. Sam and Cas had stayed behind to sweep the cemetery but Dean and Thea hadn't been keen on leaving her side. Both of them had taken the fact that she somehow screamed the cemetery down surprisingly well.

Thea had been the one to suggest taking her here. In the car, while Laurel was sitting in the back seat with Mary, Dean and Thea had bickered quietly in the front seat. ''Look,'' she'd said. ''I know you two have gone from frenemies to all out enemies but if she's a metahuman, my brother can help.''

To which Dean had spit out, ''If she's a meta, we can just take her to Central City and they can help her.''

''Sure,'' had been the dry response. ''Except that you've been blacklisted from Star Labs because of that stupid stunt you pulled last month with Di - ''

''Fine,'' he'd cut in sharply, and Laurel had watched as his eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror. ''We'll go.''

A lot of the conversation had gone over her head. She doesn't know where Central City is, what a meta is, who Thea's brother is, but she knows what that flash of uncontrollable panic in his eyes meant. It was _guilt._

Laurel looks at the two of them, murmuring quietly, without a doubt talking about her. She looks at her husband for a minute, trying to figure out what he's feeling right now. If he's worried. If he's scared of her. She swings her gaze to Mary. Her little girl is standing behind Thea, one arm curled around her leg, the other cradling her stuffed shark to her chest. Thea, for her part, has one hand rubbing circles on Mary's upper back without breaking her conversation with Dean. Mary keeps looking around the room like she expects someone or something to jump out at her. She knows this place too, and she doesn't seem to want to be here.

Laurel sinks her teeth into her lower lip, torn between comforting her daughter or walking around this strange place, trying to trigger some memories. Hesitantly, she looks back to the mannequins. She wanders over to the cases and her eyes zero in on the empty one. It stings to see that mannequin so bare, though she's not sure why. She stares at it for a minute, frowning and struggling to remember how something like this ever could have meant so much to her. She narrows her eyes, thoughtful. She thinks she used to be here. In some way. She used to feel at home here.

''Laurel?''

She jumps, caught off guard at the sound of Thea's voice.

''Sorry,'' Thea smiles, gentle but nervous. She places a steadying hand on the small of Laurel's back. ''Are you okay?''

''Oh, um, I'm...'' She presses her lips together. ''I guess I'm not sure.''

''That's okay,'' Thea says. ''There's no rush.'' She gives it a minute and then tries again. ''Do you - Do you remember being here?''

''I don't know.''

''Well,'' Thea lifts a shoulder in a deceptively unconcerned shrug. ''You'll get there. Don't worry about it.''

''Do you think I'm broken?'' The words push themselves through her lips before she can stop them. She immediately wants to take them back. They feel somehow too childish and too heavy at the same time. It's not a question Thea - or anyone for that matter - can answer right now.

Thea, with her sweet, kind heart, still tries. ''No.'' She sounds so easily confident with her answer. ''People don't break. They bend, they bruise, and then they get better.''

Laurel finds herself minutely floored by that statement. ''That's very wise,'' she comments softly.

Thea laughs. ''I'm not really all that wise. I just believe in healing.'' She looks at the leather suits, her eyes finding the red one. She looks, for a second, both wistful and resentful. ''We stay resilient, no matter what we endure,'' she says strongly, and then offers Laurel a small smile. ''My mom used to say that.''

''She sounds like a strong woman.''

An uncomfortable beat. ''She was.''

Laurel casts a sidelong glance at her, taking in the quiet but ever present grief. She doesn't comment on the past tense. She's not sure what to say to comfort her. She probably would have known seven months ago.

A high pitched yelp followed by a soft thud catches her attention and both she and Thea whirl around. Mary has tumbled to the ground, tripping over her feet and landing hard on her hands and knees. She looks vaguely stunned, her poor shark knocked right out of her hands, but she's not crying. Even though she doesn't appear to actually be injured, there are still three adults rushing towards her. Dean gets there first, seemingly appearing from nowhere to swiftly lift Mary back up to her feet. Thea is quick to sweep the lost shark off the ground, kneeling down in front of the girl to return the shark.

''You good?'' Dean asks, before he leans down to whisper something in Mary's ear that makes her laugh.

Mary nods, sniffling.

''Need a band aid?'' Thea asks.

''Because you know Auntie Thea has some really cool band aids in her giant nanny purse.''

''That's true. I do. I have so many band aids, Mary.''

Mary blinks, smiles slowly, and thrusts her hand out to Thea.

And Laurel...doesn't actually have anything to do here. She hangs back, feeling out of place and in the way. Dean and Thea seem to work well together. They have a system, born most likely out of necessity but still something that runs smoothly, like a well oiled machine. They've learned to co-parent. Laurel is not part of that system, that machine, that family. She's not needed. She is Mary's mother, will always be Mary's mother, but she hasn't really been a parent in seven months. She backs away from her family, feeling useless.

She releases a breath and goes back to examining this - this place. She wonders, idly, if all of this belonged to her. She can't imagine that. It doesn't feel quite right. She never would have had this much power.

''Mommy!'' When she turns back around, Mary is sitting perched on the table, clutching a fistful of band aids. She waves them at her expectantly. ''You do this part,'' she says, like it's completely ludicrous that anyone else would ever put a band aid on her when clearly that is mom's job.

Thea, digging around in what is, in fact, a comically large purse, smiles to herself.

''Oh,'' Laurel says, ''right, sorry.'' She glances over at the bare mannequin one last time and then goes over to her daughter. Mary is not hurt, but she's extremely excited about the band aid. When Laurel presses a kiss to her daughter's completely uninjured hand, it comes to her. Something in her head lurches and she remembers. Mary loves whimsical band aids. She's not the greatest walker in the world due to consistent balance issues stemming from her uneven hearing. She's still in a stroller on long walks and she much prefers to be carried. It used to greatly distress her. Even if she wasn't hurt, the fall would scare her. She would cry every time. So Laurel started buying cute little band aids with all of Mary's favourite characters on them. She and Dean made a big deal out of it, made the band aids into these great treats, and it worked. Falling doesn't scare Mary as much as it used to. ''Better?'' She whispers, after she's carefully placed the band aid on Mary's hand.

Mary smiles happily down at the band aid. ''Frogs,'' she says. ''Mommy, I love frogs.''

''You love all animals,'' Thea says, taking a seat at the table.

Mary gives Thea a very stern look and signs, _Not snakes_.

Thea laughs. _Not snakes,_ she signs back in agreement.

''I don't like snakes,'' Mary informs Laurel.

''I don't like snakes either,'' Laurel says, even though she's not sure that's true. Maybe she loves snakes? She doesn't know. She doubts it.

''That's okay,'' Mary says brightly. When Laurel sits down, the little girl scooches off the table and into her lap. Laurel has to push back a wince because she's still fairly injured, body littered with cuts and scrapes and bruises, but she's not about to deny her daughter a cuddle. _Daddy says he can protect me from the snakes,_ Mary signs, and then leans in to whisper, awed, ''Even the giant ones. He can protect you too.''

Laurel grins. ''That sounds like a plan.''

From off to the side, out of Mary's line of hearing, Thea mumbles under her breath, ''He'd run screaming from a snake and everyone knows it.''

''I wouldn't run screaming,'' Dean retorts, once again, popping out of nowhere. ''I'd just walk away at a brisk pace.'' He places a black box on the table, cutting off Thea's sarcastic response, and everyone goes quiet.

Mary makes an ''ooooohhh'' noise and then says, ''I know what that is. I'm not supposed to touch it.''

''That's right,'' Dean agrees. ''Not ever.''

'' 'Cause it's Mommy's,'' Mary nods.

He flips the box open, and Laurel suddenly cannot hear what anyone else is saying. Now that thing belongs to her. No one else has used it. No one else will ever use it. No one else even can. It was made for her and her only. It used to fit around her throat so perfectly, not like a collar but like an extension of her. It was her safety net, her borrowed strength, her greatest weapon. Until now, she supposes. She doesn't need the feather to fly anymore.

''Laur?'' She blinks, tearing herself out of her trance, and looks up at Dean. He is looking at her with this carefully made stoicism, like this is a business conversation and he's being professional. As if she didn't rip herself out of the earth and scream the boneyard down without breaking a sweat and without the aid of this. ''Do you remember this?'' He asks.

''It was your Canary Cry device,'' Thea jumps in. ''Before.''

Yes, she knows.

Her mouth has gone dry at the sight of it. Who the hell was she the last time she was here? What did she do here? ''I remember power,'' she says. ''But,'' she shakes her head. ''It came from this.'' She gestures to the device. ''It never came from me. I never had power without it.''

Thea frowns deeply. She looks like she vehemently disagrees with that idea.

Dean leans down to brace his hands against the table. ''But what if you did?''

She shakes her head again. ''No. No, that doesn't sound right.''

He doesn't listen. ''What if you always had the power and this thing was just in your way?'' He snaps the lid of the box shut loud enough to make Thea jump and Mary frown in annoyance. ''What if this real Canary Cry has always been inside of you, Laur? Maybe it's been there the whole time and all you've ever needed was a trigger.''

She brings one hand up to her throat and tries to stifle the panic. No. She doesn't want that. She doesn't want this - this thing inside of her. This isn't power. This is destruction. She could hurt people with this.

Mary, who spent most of the conversation unwrapping band aids, cranes her neck to look up at her mother's face. She grins widely. Laurel smiles back, or at least tries to. ''Mommy has superpowers like Elsa?'' Mary asks as she peels a band aid off the wrapper and sticks it to the front of her shirt.

Dean says, without missing a beat, ''Oh, now, your mom's always had superpowers, honeybee.''

''Yep,'' Thea nods. ''Nobody in the world can ruin a pot roast the way she can.''

Mary giggles and sticks a Captain America band aid to her forehead. It lightens the mood instantly, albeit temporarily. Laurel's heart is still hammering in her chest and the sickening feeling of dread is caught in her throat like a sob that wants out but she's still breathing, isn't she? No panic attack in sight. She keeps her eyes on Mary, her sweet kid with her adorable smile, just like her dad's. Nobody talks about the absurd idea of superpowers.

The peace doesn't last long.

When she lifts her eyes back up to Dean, he has straightened, eyes on something over her shoulder. The easy smirk on his lips has dropped off and his posture is rigid. Even Thea's body language has changed, eyes widening slightly before she turns her attention to Mary. ''Sweetie, come sit with me for a few minutes.'' Something about the tone of her voice must get to her because she slips off her mother's lap without protest and skips over to Thea.

Laurel never even has a chance to ask what's going on.

''Laurel?''

The voice comes from behind her; a quiet, disbelieving murmur of her name. The sound of her name in this person's mouth jolts her a little but she doesn't know why. She tilts her head, curious but not overly emotional the way she was when she heard Dean say her name. There's something but it feels muddled. She tries to put a name and a face to the voice. She rises to her feet and turns around slowly to face -

''Ollie.'' The name falls through her lips easily. She recognizes him when she sees him standing there, staring at her in shock and awe. The memory of him is incomplete, a blank slate in her head. She knows him but she doesn't recall how she knows him. She knows he is associated with equal parts hurt and love, but she doesn't know who he is to her now. He looks like he's about to fall over, so she tries to be as gentle as possible. ''Hi,'' she greets softly, sending him what she hopes is a reassuring smile. ''I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.''

He steps back, even though he's nowhere near her. ''I... I don't...'' He can't look away from her. ''Dean,'' he says, eyes still firmly on her. ''What did you do?'' He sounds like he's going to cry.

Dean says, ''Would you believe me if I told you I didn't do this?''

''Hey!'' A voice cries out, sounding indignant. This particular voice sends Laurel spinning. ''I know you're super privileged and all but you know that when you take a cab you have to pay, right? I would have thought that the Mayor - '' The blonde stops, her sentence breaking off abruptly as she comes to a sudden stop next to Oliver. Her eyes find Laurel. Nobody moves. Nobody says a single word. ''Laurel,'' she gets out. Her hands move to cover her mouth, wide eyes filling with tears. ''Oh my god,'' she whispers into her hands. ''Is that...'' She looks over at Dean, hands falling limply to her sides. ''Is it her? Is this real?''

''It's her,'' says Dean. ''She's real.''

Laurel says, ''Hi, Sara.''

That's all Sara needs. Her entire body sags and she starts crying, letting out these loud, gulping, relieved sobs. Laurel doesn't think she has ever heard anyone sound so relieved. She opens her arms and her sister runs to her, just like she always has.

This is one of the unchangeable facts about Laurel Lance.

Everything she is, everything she has, it all goes back to Sara in the end. It begins and ends with this. Her first little girl. Her entire life has been six degrees of Sara; a cycle of love and anger and hurt and laughter, of failing and falling, of devotion and desperation. They are woven together, two sides of the same coin, unbalanced and uneven without each other. It doesn't matter that the world doesn't want them to exist at the same time. The Lance sisters fight their way towards each other through everything. Through endless battles, through the ocean, the mountains, their own damn graves. They find their way back every time. They reach for each other through the water and the dirt and the blood, and they don't let go. Even when the universe is telling them it's wrong to hold on so tight. That's the way the story goes. It's Dean and Sam. It's Oliver and Thea. It's Laurel and Sara. Always and forever.

Laurel - much like Dean and Oliver - has made terrible, selfish, impossible choices for her sister. She was willing to destroy, to upend her life, ruin friendships, risk her own soul, just to bring Sara home. She has stripped herself apart to give this girl life, and there has never been one single second where she regretted that.

When half of your heart is walking around outside of your body, stuffed into some reckless child who wants to fight the world to save it, you do what you have to do. You keep it beating. When you are an older sibling, you are given a responsibility. You are shown a life that matters so much more than yours. You keep that kid safe. It doesn't matter what you lose in the process or how many things you have to take apart to keep something else together. All that matters is that you do your job.

Laurel remembers that now. She remembers everything. It's _Sara_. It has always been Sara. It will always be Sara.

Dean told her she needed a trigger and when Laurel looks at Sara, the light streams in.

It is not a gentle remembrance.

Both the good and the bad memories come rushing back to her in waves, taking their places in her heart and her head, thrumming through her bloodstream, warming her up.

She remembers Sara as a child, bright eyed, laughing, full of wonder and hope and joy the same way Mary is now. She remembers her dancing in a field of wildflowers on that camping trip they took one summer. She remembers when Sara fell, the cracking sound her skull made against the pavement, the way her blood felt on her hands. She remembers the way she looked on that table in the Foundry, eyes open and lifeless, unnaturally stiff and rigid.

She remembers falling in love with Dean, feeling weightless and floaty around him, closing her eyes and jumping all the way into that love. She remembers it was so easy with him that sometimes all she could think when she looked at him was _where the hell have you been?_ She also remembers the horror of his alcohol withdrawal when she was pregnant with Mary. How it got so scary and dangerous that she wound up having to leave him because the sick, rageful, desperate man who needed ''just one more drink'' and would have done anything to get it wasn't her husband anymore. It had been, she remembers, the first and only time she has ever been scared of him.

She remembers everything about her baby girl. She remembers being pregnant, feeling those kicks, learning she was a girl, giving birth, holding her in the arms in that sunlit bedroom singing Sea of Love. She remembers the first smile, first laugh, first words, first steps. She remembers gardening with Mary, playing with her, taking her to the movies, reading from that old copy of Where the Wild Things Are, telling her every night, ''No matter where I go, a piece of me will always be right here with you.'' She remembers all the words to Sea of Love. She also remembers the day she was told about Mary's Pendred syndrome, numbly listening to the doctor say things like _hearing loss_ and _thyroid problems_ and _possible goiters_. She remembers having to sit there and watch, completely helpless, as Mary lost all of the hearing in her right ear by the time she was two. She remembers all of the sleepless nights where she and Dean sat at the dining room table talking about the astronomical prices of hearing aids and how shitty their insurance was.

Laurel remembers the good things. She remembers all of it. She remembers smiling and laughing. She remembers loving with every little piece of her. She remembers being loved. She remembers becoming Black Canary. How Oliver wasn't on her side but that didn't matter because she had Dean, Sam, Ted, and Nyssa. The way she felt the night she put on that mask for the first time. She remembers soaring and feeling so alive in the night, standing on rooftops, looking down at her city, the wind in her hair. She remembers putting on her grandfather's old record collection and slow dancing with her husband in their living room at one in the morning. She remembers happiness. She loved it. She loved being here.

However, she remembers everything else too.

Addiction, anger, loss, spiraling and drowning and struggling and being constantly beaten down. She remembers being torn apart, degraded, mocked, and abused by the people who claimed to love her.

''You're not a hero,'' Oliver had told her once, thinly veiled disgust evident in his hypocritical, controlling voice.

''The daughter that lived,'' her father used to spit out, bitter and disappointed that she was the one he was stuck with.

She remembers the breathless agony of her death. The torment, the fear, the anger, the desperation, the knowledge that she was dying for nothing. The arrow had hurt, sure, and everything that happened in that hospital room had been anguish and misery, but what had really stung was having to die knowing that she was dying a pawn; depowered, violated, and dismantled for no reason other than to make a man feel bad. She spent her whole life trying to make it better, make everything better, and she didn't even get to die a hero. She died a violent, misogynistic, pointless death. Her life was spent pushing back, fighting against the men who wanted to hold her down and control her and in the end, they won.

She didn't even get to think as Oliver's arrow was jammed into her lung, _At least I've done enough to make my daughter proud of me._

No. Instead, she got to choke. She got to listen to Damien Darhk's pleased, mocking voice tell her, ''I want you to give your father a message from me. I want you to tell him I'm a man of my word.'' She was made into an object in a man's story and all she could do was listen and choke on her own blood. She never even got a chance to fight. She got to think, around the blood in her mouth and the panic in her throat, _If you wanted to hurt him, you sure as hell picked the wrong sister._

The memories hurt as they come home to her. It feels like she is being torn, like her insides are being ripped apart to make room for these memories, this life she lived. It feels like it's all being brutally hammered back into place in her head. Her body is under attack. She feels too hot and worryingly dizzy.

Sara is the one who draws back from the hug first, holding onto her sister's hands, peering at her with worried eyes. ''Laurel?'' She sounds alarmingly far away. ''Are you okay?''

Laurel looks down at their joined hands and when she raises her head, her vision blurs and the ground shifts beneath her feet. The last thing she sees, before everything falls away, is her sister's eyes. She thinks, as the darkness comes to greet her again, that forgetting may have been a mercy.

But that's the tragedy of her life, isn't it?

Laurel has never been given mercy.

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 **end part two**


	3. The Weight of Water

_AN: Additional spoilery warnings for this chapter at the bottom._

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 **How the Light Gets In**

 _Written by Becks Rylynn_

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 **Part Three**

 _The Weight of Water_

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Here is a secret nobody knows:

She's always been drowning.

Before the boat went down, after the boat went down, through all of the loss and the heartache, through every fight, every victory, every setback, every joy, every sorrow. Every moment has been a struggle for her. It's hard to explain. She's tried, but people don't always understand. She doesn't even understand half the time. It's hard to explain that her occasional tight smiles and tired eyes aren't about her being cold. She has no problem with loving. She loves with every piece of her. That's not the problem. She's not a snob. She is not _whiny_. She's just sad. She doesn't know how to not be sad. She's never known.

Suffocation has been her way of life for as long as she's been here.

She remembers that now.

It's not something that has been done to her, she doesn't think. The things that have happened to her and the way she's been treated haven't helped, but they didn't cause the illness. They just exacerbated the symptoms. This is the way she was built. There is a flaw inside of her brain. She has too much of one thing and not enough of the other. Some crucial part of her is missing. She does not own the ability to be happy the way that others do. She's not incapable of being happy. She has known happiness. She has known pleasure, contentment, and warmth. Just not in the way that other people have. She simply lacks the emotional capacity needed for it. There isn't always enough room in her for it.

She is not allowed to say this out loud. She has never been allowed to say this out loud. Suffering is for other people. She's never had a right to it, according to some. She is supposed to be perfect and flawless, warm and kind and good. She is meant to be porcelain. She is meant to be holy. Anything less than that makes her weak and worthless. It makes her a burden. This is what she has been taught. It's really not so bad. The drowning. When all you've ever known is the choking and the breathlessness, you get used to it.

You learn to live with the water.

It's even easier to live with if you have something to numb your burning lungs. Laurel has been searching for a way to assuage the burning, the pain, the ache in her throat, for her entire life.

Contrary to what people choose to believe, her substance abuse did not begin with Tommy's death. It would be an easier story to tell. A woman loses someone she loves and copes with PTSD, depression, and survivor's guilt by self-medicating. She would hardly be the first tragedy like that. But that's not what happened. There is a wrong way to tell this story. Things got worse after Tommy died. There was an overflow, a brand new level of desperation and devastation, hurt piled on top of hurt, but it didn't start there. It didn't even start with Oliver and Sara.

The truth, the one that nobody wants to hear, is that she'd been drugged for years before any of that happened.

By the time she got pregnant with Mary, she was mostly clean. She had a legitimate prescription for Xanax that she honestly hadn't been using that much, she occasionally took an Ambien to help her sleep, and yes, she did drink too much sometimes. Still, she was better than she had been in years. When she got pregnant, she stopped drinking, she stopped taking any and all medications, and it was easy. It was easy to quit that time. To let it all go. When she had been struck down by completely draining morning sickness in her first trimester and her doctor had prescribed her some anti nausea medication, she hadn't even wanted to take that. For her entire pregnancy, she hesitated to even take a Tums for heartburn. After Mary was born, while she was breastfeeding, she'd have the occasional glass of champagne if she was at a party, drink a glass of wine with dinner and then pump and dump every now and then, and she was put on Paxil for postpartum depression, but other than that, she was sober. So was Dean. He had gone through hell and back to get sober while she was pregnant.

She was so good during her pregnancy and the first six months of Mary's life. She had been so proud of herself.

Then the Undertaking happened. Tommy died. CNRI was reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble. A few months after that, while she was still in the thick of her grief, a psychopath kidnapped her. She had been so close to death in those moments that she'd just sort of accepted it. There had even been a part of her that _wanted_ it. It's hard to come back from that moment of acceptance, that single split second where you know you're going to die and your terror gives way to something else, something that can't be soothed with a hug from your father. Suffice to say, she slipped after that. She had thought, at the time, that she earned that slip. Life had beaten her down, it had taken from her, drained her of something she hasn't been able to get back since. The least she deserved was a few extra glasses of wine and something to help her sleep at night. Something to keep the panic at bay. So she fell back into old habits.

Her habits started when she was a kid.

She'd get these humiliating, debilitating, stress induced panic attacks. Her first panic attack happened when she was twelve years old. When her parents moved her and Sara out of their grandparents' house and into their brand new, proudly owned townhouse. The first night there, without her glow in the dark stars, without her grandfather opening her creaky bedroom door to check on her before he went to bed, all alone in her own room without Sara, she had wound up curled up in the fetal position, gasping for breath.

That vice-like panic hasn't left her since.

Every once and awhile, it'll taper off and give her a few weeks, a few months, of peace and quiet, but it never fails to come back. It is a constant and embarrassing display of fragility. The most dependable thing in her life. People leave, but the panic always comes back. As a sober adult, a wife and mother, the Black Canary, she has learned to manage them. I mean, what else can you do? You can't ignore the elephant in the room forever. You have to make space. You make the space and you learn to live around it. There is no other option. So she has. She has carved out a place for them in her life. She has a routine now. She has her coping mechanisms. She knows how to get through them, how to cope with the breathlessness, the racing heartbeat, the spike in her body temperature, the nausea, she knows her triggers, and how to sense one coming on.

There is a list of people she trusts with these moments, a list of people she trusts not only with her life but with her heart and her illness. The list is...well, frankly, the list is depressingly short. Certain names have been crossed out over the past couple of years - some due to their own actions, some because she just doesn't want to bother people. Mostly, the list is Dean. There are other people on the list, but she thinks he's the one who knows her panic the best. He's just been around it more. He knows how to help her, how to spot an incoming attack, how to stave one off, how to wait one out, and he has never made a big deal out of them. It's not like he's some incredibly patient saintly being who has somehow cured her with his love and never ever messes up. It's just that he's never panicked in response to her panic and he has never, not once, treated her like she is a lesser being for them. In her life, that's rare. She trusts him. After all these years, she trusts him with every part of her from her heart to her panic. That is also rare.

Panic attacks have been a part of her life, a part of her, for so long that she doesn't think she would be her without them. They're not as scary or as controlling as they once were. They're there and they are extremely unpleasant, but she feels like she's managed to lead a pretty good life even with the panic and the depression.

It wasn't like that when she was a kid. Especially not when she was a teenager. She was a basket case when she was a teen. She was always worried about something. Studying, gymnastics, Oliver, taking care of her parents, her grandparents, Sara; always under all this pressure to be the good girl, the responsible sister, the perfect daughter, the forgiving girlfriend. It got so bad that when she was seventeen, she was averaging about an attack a day. Her father blamed her, admittedly tumultuous, relationship with Oliver and wanted her to break it off so she could concentrate on ''getting better.'' Her mother worried about her lack of a social life. A ridiculous thing to worry about considering she actually had a fairly large circle of friends and went to parties all the time. She was even a cheerleader for a year. Her grandparents were of the opinion that she was overworking herself when it came to school and her extracurricular activities, which honestly may not have been completely incorrect. And Sara just thought she was being a ''drama queen attention whore.'' Because younger siblings are brats sometimes.

Eventually, when her father insisted on taking her to the family doctor, she broke down, told the doctor everything, and was promptly given a prescription for Xanax. That was the start of everything. Taking the pills wasn't as intimidating as she had thought it would be, so she started getting brave. As time went on, bravery became carelessness. It became recklessness. It became dependence.

She accidentally took more Xanax than she needed to and instead of telling someone, she decided to ride it out and when it didn't kill her and instead gave her a nice break, she did it again. If she couldn't sleep, she'd sneak into her parents' bathroom and steal an Ambien from her mother's stash. In law school, she started taking Adderall to help her focus because everyone else did it and because she needed to focus. In her early twenties, she threw her back out at one of her self-defense classes and was given Percocet. She even learned how to doctor shop. Medication just gradually became part of her daily life.

It's not like it had just been her doing these things. Teenagers and young adults make stupid mistakes all the time. Sara was the one who told her that their mother never noticed when an Ambien or two would go missing. Tommy was the one who first introduced her to Adderall because he swore by it before he dropped out of med school. Dean was a major abuser of both prescription and nonprescription drugs. He and Sam both used to stroll into urgent care centers and walk in clinics all over the Midwest to get pain meds for their various injuries. _My job sucks_ , he always said with a careless shrug, as it he didn't have a boatload of drugs rattling around in his trunk. He was a big fan of Vicodin. He used to have a stash of stolen Fentanyl patches in a box in his car. She's not sure if he ever used those - if he did, it sure as hell wasn't around her - or if he was just a collector or even if they were his to begin with but either way, it was disturbing. Fentanyl is an incredibly potent drug. It's used for pain management in terminal cancer patients. And he had a bunch of it just casually tossed in his car.

If you were to ask her for a list of all the things she's been on, prescribed or not, she would be able to rattle off the entire list in a second. It's one of those things seared into her brain. A reminder of the hot mess she used to be. Xanax for her panic attacks, Lexapro after the boat went down, Paxil for postpartum depression, Cymbalta, Ativan, Zoloft, Adderall, Prozac, Ambien, Vicodin, Percocet, Valium, and, during a particularly low point right after the boat went down, cocaine. Wine and vodka have been her closest friends for years, also another thing that goes all the way back to her teen years. She never thought her drinking was that big of a deal. She never got as sloppy as her father did and it wasn't like she needed the alcohol. She could go months without drinking a drop. Clearly it wasn't an issue, right?

Drugs and alcohol have been a quiet part of her life for a long time, hidden beneath the surface, lurking underneath all of her morality and good girl image.

Laurel tried for years to find something, anything, that would make her feel better. Antidepressants, various forms of therapy, meditation, acupuncture, kale and other super foods, alcohol, various other substances, self-defense classes, yoga, sex, weird health cleanses, jogging. She tried everything to make herself feel real. To not be numb anymore. Nothing, not any of it, worked the way she wanted it to. She has been happy, but she has never been at peace. She's spent her whole life feeling like she's flickering. Like maybe she's not supposed to be here. This has never been something that's widely known. She kept her mask firmly in place, molded herself into a sweet, kind, humble, smiley, righteous woman who took care of everyone else and never let anyone see that she was in big trouble.

When she finally hit rock bottom, when that mask slipped and people started to notice that she was struggling, a lot of people seemed so surprised. Dean hadn't been all that surprised. She scared him, she knows she scared him, but he had known of her issues for years. He had a front row seat for a lot of terrible, crumbling moments. He knew she was a car crash waiting to happen. It was everyone else who had a problem with her emotions. They reacted with such hostility. How dare she fall from the pedestal they hoisted her unwilling body up onto? They blamed her for falling, for being a person instead of the perfect caretaker robot they wanted her to be, for being _weak_. They looked at her like she had suddenly become broken and hollow. She was no longer a friend or family, she was no longer a daughter or a sister. She was their burden to bear. They treated her like she didn't deserve to be saved. To even be offered genuine help.

People acted like her problems came out of nowhere. It doesn't work that way. Her spiral was a long time coming. Addiction doesn't come out of nowhere. People don't wake up in the morning and think to themselves, _Today I'm going to hurt my family, lose my job, and ruin my life. That sounds like a fun thing to do._ Addicts just get worse at hiding it as they approach the bottom. And that's what she is. An addict. One who is currently - and hopefully permanently - in recovery, but still an addict. Still diseased.

Laurel Lance is many things.

She is a house of worship for all these damaged, battle weary men who throw themselves at her feet. They tell her they love her, they tell her that she's the best part of them, and then they act like she owes them something in return. As if it is somehow her job to love them back, to keep them alive, to make them better men. She is the daughter that lived. Even when her own parents wished she hadn't. She's the one who, for years, swallowed apologies for her continued survival in dive bars while her drunken father called her names.

She is the moral backbone, the ego stroking, speech giving mother hen of her little group of misfits. She is the martyred murder victim. She is the Black Canary. She has power suits, high heels, flawless hair, a picture perfect family, a house in the suburbs, a job as a public servant. She is a devoted mother and wife. She is the responsible, righteous, moral, good girl. She is the one who cleans up everyone else's goddamn messes. But above all that, she is still a chronically depressed addict. Forgetting that would be a luxury. It would also take away the victory of her sobriety.

She understands that they want her to be their perfect angel. It must be nice to have someone to clean up your mess without shoving your face in it. She understands that she has been kind to them and that they see her through the rose colored lenses of that kindness. But their view of her is idealistic and false. People can look at her like she's the patron saint of everything good, but she has never been holy.

Other than her husband, her therapist, and her AA sponsor, this is not common knowledge.

It's not something people want to know.

Nobody wants to hear about how Lexapro made her feel so exhausted that she went out one night and did a line of coke just to wake herself up because she needed to study. Nobody wants to hear about how part of the reason for her dramatic weight loss after Tommy's death was because she was put on Zoloft, which not only made her too nauseous to eat but she was also throwing up what little she did eat. How Ativan made her a rage machine. How she couldn't orgasm while she was on Prozac. How she gave up breastfeeding so she could take stronger antidepressants and how she still grapples with feeling like a selfish failure for that decision. Nobody wants to hear about her panic attacks, her depressive episodes, how often she thinks about giving up sobriety just so she can have one Xanax or one glass of wine to help her calm down. Nobody wants to hear about her suffering and she has no interest in telling them. She knows what would happen if she did.

If she were to tell them that she's hurting, that she's always been hurting, that she's never known how to make it stop hurting, they would tell her that other people hurt too. They would remind her that she hasn't been through nearly as much as the people around her so what right does she have to want to die? Her pain irritates people. It makes them want to leave, and she doesn't want them to leave.

 _Bootstraps, kid,_ they would say. _Happiness is a choice, remember? You should consider yourself lucky you don't have it as bad as your sister did._

And, yeah. That's true. She hasn't had it as bad as Sara. She hasn't been through half the horrific things that Dean and Sam have. She hasn't been on an island like Oliver has. So maybe she should just quit complaining, right? Maybe she's the lucky one.

Except.

February, 2014. The night of that horribly, poorly thought out Lance family dinner. After everyone else had been kicked out, while Dean was putting Mary to bed and Sam was cleaning up the kitchen, Laurel shut herself in the bedroom with a bottle of wine and the bottle of pills she had been hiding in her jewelry box.

She's always maintained that she's not sure what the trigger was, that she doesn't know which specific part of the night pushed her over the edge. That's a lie. What she did that night had been a long time coming, but there was a trigger. There's always a trigger. There is always that one second. For her, it was her parents. There was a moment, sitting at the dinner table, while everything was awkward and tense but before the night exploded, where she looked at her parents and they were looking at Sara with this look in their eyes. Laurel recognized the look because it was how she looked at Mary every day. Quietly, without any fanfare or theatrics, she sat there and she realized that they had never looked at her like that. Not once in almost twenty-nine years.

She stared down at her wine, with Dean's hand heavy on her knee, and she wondered what it would have felt like for them to look at her like that. She thought it would have felt really nice. Her parents loved her, love her, will love her forever, and she knows that - even sitting at that dinner table, drunk and bitter, she knew that - but they don't love her the same way they love Sara. It was a soft, silent kind of breaking that later turned into a chaotic splintering, helped along by a lot of wine, that she couldn't stop.

If you stand on a ledge for twenty-eight years, eventually your legs will get tired of holding you up. That night, she got tired. She clenched the bottle of sleeping pills in one hand and her wine glass in the other. She tried to think of what it was that she did to make them love her less. She ran through her whole life trying to figure out what was so wrong with her that made people so eager and willing to carelessly _un_ love her. She considered the outcome of what she was about to do. She was very tired. So she took two pills, washed them down with a glass of wine, and then she took another. And another. And a few more after that. She wanted to know what would happen. It was morbid curiosity, it was exhaustion, it was overwhelming sadness. It was her lowest moment.

And then she changed her mind.

That night was not the first night she had thought about leaving it all behind. It was not the first time she had considered her options. She had lived with major depressive disorder and panic disorder for her entire life. She had thought about a lot of ways out before. It was just the first time she had actually tried to leave. It wasn't what she thought it was going to be. She wanted to know what would happen and what happened is that she wound up getting unceremoniously hauled into a cold shower, fully clothed, while Sam held her tired body up and Dean stuck his fingers down her throat to get her to vomit up the pills.

That was, without a doubt, the worst moment. Not because of the physical discomfort or the humiliation or even because of her own emotional pain but because of the look in Dean's eyes, the way he was pleading with her, both angry and terrified, and the sound of Mary screaming for her parents from her crib. That's the thing about making a choice like that. It's not always the leaving that's the hard part. The hard part is when you stay. When you have to witness the horrific consequences of your actions. When you have to live with what you've done to the people you love. When you have to remember, every day for the rest of your life, the look on your husband's face the night you tried to die and the night he wouldn't let you.

She hadn't been able to properly explain her actions to him. Later, after she had thrown up all the pills and the wine, while she was sitting in the bathtub, soaking wet and shivering, she hadn't been able to make the words come out. She just couldn't do it. She wanted to be able to tell him that it had been a mistake, that she hadn't meant to, that she was just drunk and lost track of how many pills she was taking, but she couldn't. She couldn't look at him, this man who - for whatever misguided reason - actually did love her, and lie to him. It would have been cruel. She couldn't tell him the truth either. All she had been able to say was, ''I'm sorry.''

''You keep saying that,'' he'd said, standing at the sink, running a washcloth under the faucet. He couldn't even look at her. He hadn't been able to hide the fact that his hands were shaking either.

She remembers crying. It's one of the clearest memories from that foggy night. She was sitting in that bathtub, weeping, hurting, torn open and sick, and he was wiping her face with a warm washcloth. He hadn't seemed to realize that she didn't deserve the kindness and the gentleness he was giving her. ''I don't know what else to say,'' she admitted.

''You could say you didn't want to leave. You could say it was an accident. Laurel, please,'' he begged. ''Tell me that's all it was.''

She hadn't been able to tell him that.

She'd whimpered, head falling back against the wall as tears spilled down her ashen cheeks. She closed her eyes so she didn't have to see the look on his face. ''I'm sorry,'' she'd said again. It was the only thing she had to give him.

In February of 2014, after an exhausting twenty-eight years, a brutal nine months of grief and spiraling, and a particularly bad night, Laurel tried to kill herself because she was tired of being tired. She looked at the pills, she looked at the wine, and she had simply thought, _I am not brave enough to be here anymore._

She'd spent her whole life being brave, and her bravery just wasn't cutting it anymore. It wasn't good enough. She wasn't good enough. She approached it with an odd sort of calm. Her parents loved her very much but mostly when it was convenient for them. Sara resented her stifling presence so much that she'd drowned herself to get away from her. They would probably all by fine. Maybe they would even be happier. They'd finally get to have the family life they always wanted without overly emotional, self righteous, whiny Laurel getting in the way.

She knew that Dean and Mary were better off together without her hanging around in the background, awkward and drunk and just not the kind of mom or wife anyone needs. He was the one who stayed home with their daughter every day. He was the primary caregiver, the one who always seemed to know just what their daughter needed, and Mary was a baby. She would grow up with pictures and fairytales about her dead mother. That was far better than the real thing. Dean would be angry at first and he'd grieve, but he'd get over it and move on. Find someone better. Someone worthy of being his wife and Mary's mom. It actually gave her a certain amount of comfort to know that he and Mary would have each other. That the one good thing she ever did was give them each other.

Laurel had been tired of being left behind. Just once, she wanted to be the one to leave first. So she took the sleeping pills and she drank the wine and she waited, this shred of hope in the back of her mind telling her that maybe this meant she would see Tommy again.

The only reason she had changed her mind was because she realized she hadn't left a note and because she got this horrifying image in her head of Dean walking into the room with Mary in his arms and finding her dead in their bed. She couldn't do that to them. Leaving was one thing but she couldn't give him another body to cradle in his arms, another body to burn, and she couldn't let Mary see that.

But she _had_ wanted to leave. Saying she didn't would be a lie. She had wanted to die that night. There wasn't a doubt in her mind at the moment. Ironically, years later, at the time of her death, what she wanted most was to live. Because life's a bitch.

Depression is a liar that puts a bottle of pills in your hand, cups your cheek, and whispers, _I'll stop if you make me._ Anxiety is a loaded gun with your finger on the trigger asking, _Don't you think it would be better for everyone if you did this?_ That was almost every day for her. When the greatest villain of your life is your own mind, every day is a struggle, a drowning, another sleepless night, a fight for your life. Sometimes it's not a fight you can win. That night, without hesitation, she had come to the realization that she was not going to win the fight, that she had tried and tried for all those years, but that there was only one way to make it stop. And she had wanted so badly for it to stop.

So, no, she's never been on an island, never looked Lucifer in the eye, never been crafted into a human weapon of mass destruction, but she has absolutely wanted to die. Is that what it feels like to be lucky?

If people want to believe that her addiction and her sadness started with Tommy, that's fine. She can't do anything about their willful ignorance. But make no mistake. She has been a breathless, depressed, junkie for as long as she has been old enough to know that nobody really wants her here.

This is what she remembers as she comes back to herself, bright lights hovering over her, voices in the distance. This is the _first_ thing she remembers.

Talk about a harsh wake up call.

She welcomes these memories back into her life with a tired acceptance. This hurt is hers and no one else's. It belongs inside of her the same way every other aspect of her personality does. She wouldn't be who she is or where she is without it. That doesn't mean it's not jarring to wake up with all the times she wanted to die stuck in her head.

There are other memories too, of course. There was - is - happiness mixed in with the sorrow. It's not as if she's never known it. Her happiness may be different than other people's happiness, perhaps more fragile, perhaps quieter, but she does remember what it's like.

Happiness is in the first time Mary ever signed _I love you_ to her. It was Mother's Day and Mary was sitting on the bed, hair mussed, giggling and so excited to show her mom what she had learned. Happiness is everything about that little girl from her eyelashes to her scraped knees to her amazing laugh. Laurel used to be so terrified of her daughter. While she was pregnant and for the first couple months of Mary's life all Mary represented was this major life change. She was so scared she was going to mess her child's life up. She was scared to be her mother, she was scared to be her father, she was scared she was too unstable to be a real parent, she was scared of everything. Being a first time parent was so intimidating. It still is.

But Mary, despite all of the hardships, despite her hearing impairment, is like this tiny ball of sunshine and unflinching goodness. Sure, she's shy to a fault, she's clingy, she's sheltered, probably a little too much, she's epically dramatic, and she is definitely way too spoiled. But she is also kind and sweet and loving. Just the sweetest little thing. She adores animals and flowers and cookies. She loves Disney movies and her band-aids and The Flash. She's been asking for a rabbit and a puppy since she was two years old. She's a terrible singer and an even worse dancer but she does it anyway because it's fun. She loves her family - especially her dad, who she looks at like he hung the moon just for her. She's a tiny caretaker, always worrying about whether or not someone is sad or hurt or needs a hug. She laughs all the time. Every day. Every day of her little life she has found something to be so overjoyed by that all that wonder just erupts inside of her and comes out in giggles. She has the single best laugh in the entire world.

Mary Bea is her parents' saving grace. She's a miracle. It's impossible not to be happy in her presence, and Laurel was so happy to be her mom.

It's not just Mary who has given Laurel happiness either. Happiness is that day when she sat down across from Dean in a cafe and offered him a piece of pie as a peace offering. It's the first time she ever saw him smile with his eyes. It's the night they decided to get married and that day in the courthouse.

It's the first time she held Sara in her arms after she came home - both times. Watching her father hold his granddaughter for the first time. Helping Oliver teach Thea how to ride a bike and the way she laughed so loudly when she was finally about to ride down the driveway all on her own. She remembers jumping up and down with Joanna when they were both accepted to law school. The full, content feeling in her chest when she'd come home and find Dean in the kitchen with Mary on his hip, bickering with Cas about dinner while Sam and Tommy try to arm wrestle for the remote control in the living room. It's in the words to Sea of Love, the song she sings to her baby girl. Happiness is the galaxy on her bedroom ceiling, the one her grandmother gave to her.

It's in her golden hair against the dark of the night sky with a voice in her ear saying, _Ready, Black Canary?_

It's in her sure, confident, steely reply of, _Ready._

She is chipped around the edges and probably always will be but she is well acquainted with joy. A lot of that joy has been given to her by her family. Not the one she was born into, but the one she made with her own two hands. She found solace and purpose in Black Canary; a home she never knew she needed. She found comfort in the law. There will always be safety in her father's arms, and her bleeding heart will be resting in Sara's open palms forever, whether it is beating or not, but it's Dean and Mary, the family she chose, who have given her everything she has ever wanted.

And to think, it all started one warm summer night when she dropped her keys, he picked them up, and she hit him over the head with her purse because she thought he was a mugger.

Nobody other than Dean, Sam, and her therapist will ever know about that February night. She got help. She got better. She checked herself into the hospital that night, she started AA, and, eventually, she rediscovered her want to live. And no one will ever know. She was in the hospital for a week and during that week, nobody asked where she was. Her parents called, her father and Sara both dropped by a few times, but when Dean told them to leave, they left. They were still too angry with her to push the issue. _They_ were angry with _her_. That's still hilarious to her. Laurel mended fences when she got back, offered up half-hearted apologies made to sound as genuine as possible, and didn't bother to wait for any from them. She made up with Sara, she made her father proud when she started attending meetings, she hesitantly allowed herself to be pulled back into Oliver's orbit, and none of them ever asked where she was for that week.

It was an odd sort of acceptance when she realized that. Instead of swallowing a handful of pills, she'd just sort of thought, _oh, well, okay._

It's another part of her, another jagged piece, another inescapable truth. Laurel has infinite love for other people. She will love them, all of them, until it ruins her. Other people have a finite amount of love for her. There is a limit to what they will do for her. And that's okay. Their intent is not malicious. They're not bad people. They just don't need her as much as she needs them. If she were to stand here all alone and lonely, it would probably sting a lot more. That's just the thing: she's not alone. She is never going to be alone again.

Nobody asked where she was for the week she was in the hospital, but her husband visited her almost every day.

Dean Winchester is an unexpected exception to the rule; some grumpy stubborn jackass who loves her and won't leave, no matter what she does. She keeps fucking up and he just keeps patiently taking the gun out of her mouth, handing her all of this devotion, carelessly, lazily turning her into someone he would die for, without asking for anything in return, making her feel something other than the numbness she'd gotten used to. If she were to burn, he would hold her hand, and he would burn with her. She doesn't think he'd even hesitate.

She has never known what she is supposed to do with that. It is not the kind of love she is used to receiving; this selfless, unconditional, unwavering kind of love. It's so strange to be loved that way. They don't have a perfect marriage. No one does. There's no such thing. But he's stuck with her through thick and thin. He's the only one who ever has. Through everything, from her insecurities at the beginning of their relationship to an unplanned pregnancy to a suicide attempt, he's been here. He has remained by her side, supporting her in spite of everything that's broken inside of her. She figures it's probably because he's fairly broken himself. He is the only other person she's met who understands her specific brand of _tired._

She worries, often, that she might take him for granted sometimes. That maybe she comes off as disinterested or unreceptive to the kind of love he gives her. But he gives it to her anyway. Everything she's ever asked for, he's given her. There's a word for that kind of love.

Agape.

She remembers that too.

It's tucked away, in between all of these things in her head, in between the good and the bad, the drowning and surfacing for breath, the living and the dying. Pressed in between the pages of depression and addiction, laughter and family, is the memory of love. When she opens her eyes to a spinning and lurching world, with that familiar craving taking its place in her bones and her blood, love is at the forefront of it all.

There is nothing, she knows now, that could ever be more Dinah Laurel Lance than that.

She blinks a few times but winces at the bright lights above her head and has to close her eyes again. She tries to lick her lips but her mouth is bone dry, it feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, and there is this terrible taste she can't get rid of. Her head is throbbing. She has absolutely no energy to wake up right now. She doesn't even want to move. She lies there for another minute or two, mind cycling through her memories as they all slot into place. It's only when she feels a hand on her arm that she forces herself to pry open her eyes.

The sight of her eyelids fluttering open seems to shake him because she watches the expression on his face jump from careful professionalism to astonishment. Instinctively, she tries her best to smile for him, plastering on her best sweet smile and greeting him with a quiet, ''Hi, Johnny.'' Her voice sounds like she has gravel in her throat and the unpleasant metallic taste of blood mixed with the acrid taste of vomit makes her grimace, but the sound of her voice still seems to send shockwaves through him.

He stares at her for a minute, unable to comprehend her presence. He does look happy to see her underneath all that shock. He just doesn't know what to do with her. Finally, he smiles at her and says, very softly, ''Hey, partner.''

Her chest aches and her lips split into a wobbly grin. It's really good to see him. ''Did...'' She squirms a little but her body is too sore to move, muscles stiff and pulled tight. She feels like she has been completely demolished by something. ''Did I pass out?''

He hesitates. ''I...wasn't here,'' he says slowly. ''I just got here a few minutes ago, but I was told you had a seizure.''

She tries to swallow. ''Oh,'' she gets out, weakly. ''That's not good.''

''No,'' he agrees. ''Not so much. Has that ever happened to you before?''

She croaks out a laugh. ''Just. In the hospital. That night. I don't, um...'' She trails off. She doesn't remember seizing that night in April, doesn't remember the exact moment she left, but she does remember that night. She remembers everything. She remembers what she said to them, what she said to Dean. She remembers the sterile, antiseptic smell of the hospital. She remembers the soft, gentle tone of the doctor's voice when she told her about the... About what happened. She remembers guilt and fear. She remembers knowing. Somewhere deep inside of her, she _knew_. There wasn't going to be an April 7th for her. She had felt it the moment she woke up in that hospital bed, but she had tried so hard to be calm, to not scare anyone. She exhales slowly, stubbornly ignoring the way her stomach churns at the memory of that night. She doesn't particularly want to think about it. ''April,'' she whispers. ''That was the only time I've ever had a seizure.''

He flinches and has to look away from her. She regrets bringing it up. Should have just told him no. ''Right,'' he nods. He still can't look at her.

Her sluggish brain works to come up with something to comfort him. ''None of this has ever happened to me before,'' is all she can say. ''This is new territory.''

He smiles, but it's strained. ''Good point.''

She turns her head slightly, trying to crane her neck to find Sara or Dean. She can't see them. She can't hear their voices. She knows they're here somewhere. They have to be. Dean wouldn't have left her. She feels like she needs to get up and find them because she knows them and she knows that they both have a tendency to turn on each other in times of stress but she can't move. Her bones are too weary, there's too much blood in her mouth, and her head hurts too much. She relaxes back against the cot and tries to breathe. ''I think,'' it comes out slurred. She has to clear her throat. ''I think I bit my tongue.''

John just nods. ''That happens,'' he soothes, brushing hair out of her eyes. ''Try not to worry,'' he says. ''It's not too bad. I knew a guy who bit clean through his tongue during a seizure. That'd be a bitch to take care.''

''Did I scare them?''

He doesn't answer for a long time, which is answer enough. ''It sounds like Dean had the situation handled. He made sure you didn't hit your head. Made sure you didn't choke.''

Yes, that sounds like Dean. He's been around someone having a seizure before. He's _had_ a seizure before. He would have taken care of her. It's everyone else she's worried about. Sara, Thea - ''Mary,'' she breathes. ''I - oh, god. Mary. Did she see?''

''Laurel.'' When she unsuccessfully tries to bolt upright to get to her daughter, he gently guides her back down. ''Laurel, she's fine. I don't think she - When I got here, she was smiling. Thea's got her watching Paw Patrol.''

She tries to breathe through the panic. The last thing she needs to add to this incredibly fucked up situation is a panic attack. ''Okay.'' She closes her eyes. ''Okay, good.''

''She's a brave kid,'' he tells her.

She smiles softly, and has to blink. ''She is.'' She shifts slightly and attempts to bring a hand up to her aching head but she can't. When she opens her eyes again, that's when she sees the IV. ''Oh no,'' her eyes widen. ''John,'' she rasps. ''You can't give me... You have to get this out.'' Weakly, she tries to rip the needle out of her arm but he catches her wrists easily.

''Whoa, Laurel, hey.'' He holds onto her hands carefully. ''It's just fluids, okay? I haven't given you any narcotics.''

''Promise?''

''I promise.''

She draws in a breath. All right, well. Fluids are okay. Probably a good idea considering she hasn't been properly hydrated since, you know, _April._

''You should rest awhile longer,'' John says gently.

Probably true. She is feeling awfully exhausted. Dehydration, coming back from the dead, a seizure, and having your memories hammered back into your skull really wipes you out. Good to know. ''Yeah.''

''How about I grab you some ice chips? Get that taste out of your mouth. Sound good?''

She nods. ''Wait,'' she reaches out to grasp at his hand, holding onto him so tightly it hurts her hands. ''Can you...'' She swallows. ''Can you get Dean for me?''

He smiles gently. ''I can do that.''

''Thank you. Oh, hey,'' she grabs his hand one last time, offering him a smile. ''It's really good to see you.''

He laughs shakily. ''You have no idea how good it is to see you.''

She beams at him. She pats his arm gently, like she's trying to comfort him, even though she's not sure why he needs to be comforted. She closes her eyes against the brand new wave of tears and lies back, trying to relax her body enough to fall back to sleep. He remains by her side, one hand on her arm, an incredibly solid and unwavering presence, until he thinks she's asleep, and then she feels him leave, wandering off to get Dean and her ice chips. She considers opening her eyes to look around, but she's too tired. She keeps her eyes closed and runs through her memories once more. This time, she tries to concentrate on the happy ones. Mary's first steps, her first official date with Dean, her grandmother giving her those glow in the dark stars.

Right before she falls into a somewhat listless sleep, she feels Dean's hand slip into her own and his lips against her forehead. She hears his voice murmuring in her ear, telling her that he's right here with her, and in her head, there is this twinkling, familiar laughter.

It sounds like her grandmother.

.

.

.

 **April, 2014**

 _On her twenty-ninth birthday, her grandmother throws her a surprise party at the nursing home._

 _Laurel figures it out weeks in advance, of course, because she's Laurel and this is a thing that she does. No one has ever been able to throw her a successful surprise party before. She has an incessant - and sometimes insufferable - need to know everything that's going on around her. She's not one for surprises, even when it comes to something as harmless as a birthday party. It used to be a cute personality quirk. She'd be that person reading the back of the book first or she'd refuse to watch jump scare horror movies. It's become something more serious ever since her sister and boyfriend started screwing behind her back and then ''died'' together. It also doesn't help that a lot of people in her life tend to actively keep the truth about everything that's going on from her all the time, leaving her to fend for herself._

 _In the end, it's not hard to figure out the surprise birthday party. It's all the hushed late night phone calls between her grandmother and Dean that tip her off._

 _One night, after Mary has gone to sleep, while she's standing at the sink washing the dishes too fragile for the dishwasher and there's music filling the kitchen, she asks, ''Dean, are you having an affair with my grandmother?''_

 _He doesn't even hesitate. ''Yes,'' he says, nodding seriously. ''I didn't mean for it to happen but I went to visit her a few weeks ago and I'd just finished reading The Graduate - ''_

 _She cuts him off by bursting into laughter, still elbow deep in sudsy water. The sound of her happy, light laughter seems to shock him into silence briefly. When she looks at him, all she can see is his profile. He's making chocolate chip cookies because Mary asked for them and he's looking down at the batter, grinning at the sound of her laughter. Eye crinkles, sharp white teeth and all. It's one of those moments where she looks at him, her breath catches, and she can't believe this is her life. She is so glad that this is her life._

 _''I'm kidding,'' he says, needlessly. ''You know she's out of my league.''_

 _''That's true,'' she agrees as he reaches past her for the sugar._

 _It doesn't take much to weasel the truth out of him after that. ''It's not a big party,'' he tells her, after he's admitted everything. ''Nobody else is invited. She just wants to give you something nice.''_

 _She sits across from him and steals one of the unbaked cookies from the tray._

 _''She says she misses your smile,'' he says, somewhat reluctantly, like he's afraid to make her feel bad. ''She says she misses you.''_

 _She picks at the cookie dough. Well, okay then. ''I guess a party couldn't hurt.'' She doesn't like surprise parties or, you know, most parties in general. She doesn't like being the center of attention. She had that life while she was with Oliver. It was fun for awhile, exhausting for longer, and now she's done with it. She's moved on. She likes the quiet these days. But she knows that she's worried her family during her spiral and she knows that she's walled herself off from them in ways she never has before. The least she can do is give her grandmother a party._

 _''That's the spirit.'' He drops a kiss to the crown of her head and then reaches around her to grab her iPod so he can change the song from Starman to Mrs. Robinson._

 _Because he's a nerd and thinks he's hilarious._

 _So, on the day of the party, when she shows up at the nursing home with Dean's arm around her shoulders and Mary on her hip, she pastes on her best surprised face and she goes with the flow. It's worth it, honestly. Not just because she's able to give her grandmother an afternoon of happiness but because as parties go, it's not all that terrible. It's actually really nice._

 _Beatrice Drake is, in the words of her late husband, ''a character.'' She has always been the most whimsical part of Laurel's life. Sometimes it's hard to believed that straight laced professor Dinah Drake-Lance came from this Debbie Reynolds-like, singing and dancing, fluttering creature made of iron and stardust. It's even harder to believe that a dumpster fire like Laurel could ever be related to someone as magical and good as Beatrice. She counts it as something of a miracle that she has been able to share her life with someone like her grandmother. The woman who has never stopped trying to give her the galaxy._

 _The party, like everything Bea Drake does, is over the top and almost a little absurd. There's even a musical number. Laurel can't help but love it, all of it. True to her word, her grandmother does not invite anyone else. Not Sara, not her parents, not Sam and Cas. Just Laurel, Dean, Mary, and a whole bunch of old folks._

 _''Contrary to what your mother believes,'' Grandma says, peering at Laurel over her glasses, ''it's not meant to be an insult to them. But you could use a break, darling.''_

 _Laurel can't help but laugh at that. Boy, could she ever. She loves her family more than anything but she could use some alone time with her grandmother. Maybe that's the reason she has such a good time. It's not even just Grandma. It's the whole place. See, as it turns out, old people love her. Like, they seriously adore her._

 _They dote on Mary. Have been since before she was even born. When she was pregnant, she would come in to visit her grandmother and her ailing grandfather and all of these people would just flock toward her and her baby bump, dispensing weird, outdated advice and old wives' tales and rubbing her belly for ''luck.'' Even after Mary was born, that didn't change. Every time Laurel shows up here with Mary, she's got a bunch of people in her face, waving hard candy and cooing over her._

 _They also like Dean. This absolutely has something to do with the fact that not only is he charming and a shameless flirt but he will listen to all of the rambling stories they tell him and act like they're the greatest stories he's ever been told._

 _But they love Laurel. A lot of them seem to consider her their granddaughter too. It's very sweet. She's never been able to put her finger on why they love her so much. Maybe they miss their own children and grandchildren, maybe Grandma makes her sound more interesting than she is, maybe it's because she genuinely enjoys talking to them and never treats them like they're helpless, or maybe it's just because she is actually an eightysomething year old woman trapped in a twentysomething year old's body. Whatever the reason, they welcome her with open arms every time they see her and it's hard not to completely eat that up._

 _It is, in fact, very nice to be loved._

 _Overall, it's a wonderful birthday. Technically, her birthday isn't until Sunday but there's no way that whatever her father is planning could beat this. No offense, Dad._

 _Later, much later, while she's curled up under the sheets and half asleep with her head on his chest, her husband will look at her and say, ''You seem happy.''_

 _She'll smile sleepily into the crook of his neck and say, ''Today, I was.''_

 _And it won't be a lie._

 _For now, the sun has just set, visiting hours will be coming to a close in less than an hour, and Laurel is sitting on a couch in the common room with Mary curled into her side and Grandma sitting across from her. Across the room, Dean is patiently allowing Edith and Gloria to hustle him at Mahjong and he's listening intently to Terrence and Alvin's war stories, the same ones he hears every time he comes here. In a few minutes, when Alvin starts asking Dean ''where he served'' because he ''knows the look'' and because he's forgotten he's already asked that question several times, Laurel's going to have to go and save her poor guy._

 _Right now, however, she would like to remain here in this moment with her daughter and her grandmother in the blissful quiet. It feels like it's been such a long time since she had a moment of quiet._

 _She has spent the past few minutes trying to wipe bright pink cake frosting off her sleeping daughter's face and clothes and she still hasn't gotten it all. When she catches sight of a spot of frosting on Mary's cheek, she wipes it off with her thumb. In what seems like a direct response to that, Mary shifts in her sleep and turns her head so she can wipe her nose and mouth on Laurel's hip, smearing remnants of frosting all over her mother's shirt._

 _Meanwhile, Grandma is humming what sounds like that old Rosemary Clooney song she used to sing to her granddaughters. The familiar sound of it makes something ache not unpleasantly in Laurel's chest and throat. She watches her grandmother shuffle a deck of cards in her hand and thinks about when she was a kid and they were living with her grandparents. She'd walk into the house after school and Grandma would be sitting at the kitchen table, playing solitaire while a spice cake baked in the oven. She swallows hard and has to look away, frowning at the sudden pang of nostalgia and melancholy._

 _''So.'' She looks up at the sound of her grandmother's voice. Grandma isn't looking at her, busy placing the cards down on the table, focused on her game of solitaire. ''How did I do?''_

 _''You mean with the party?'' Laurel grins. ''You did great.'' She thinks of the party, of laughing and smiling, of the relieved look on Dean's face because she'd finally been able to be carelessly joyful for at least one day. ''I had a great time,'' she says honestly. ''It was nice to be able to relax and laugh for a few hours. Thank you.''_

 _Grandma smiles at her, with this undeniable Drake spark in her eyes. ''Of course, Star,'' she says, and Laurel can't help but feel a burst of warmth in her chest at the old childhood term of endearment. ''I'm glad I could give you laughter.''_

 _''You always make me laugh.''_

 _''It's a gift.''_

 _Beside her, Mary squirms, tossing and turning, kicking her feet as she tries to get herself into a more comfortable position on the lumpy couch. Laurel pauses, worried about waking her, but ultimately lifts her daughter into her arms, relaxing back against the cushions so Mary can flop against her comfortably. She looks at her sleeping child, watching her breathe evenly and peacefully. Thanks to all of her honorary grandparents and great grandparents sneaking her bites of cake all day long, Mary has had way too much sugar today and Laurel is a little concerned about the fallout. What is it about grandparents and giving kids sugar? She doesn't think one single day of indulgence is going to ruin Mary forever, but the last time she had a day full of overexcitement, she wound up pulling an exorcist all over her crib and that was without sugar. Laurel is just not looking forward to cleaning that up if it happens again._

 _She rubs Mary's back gently, adamantly not thinking about the pink frosting currently being ground into her shirt. When she looks up, Grandma is looking at her with a very familiar expression on her face. ''Now, don't get mad at me,'' she starts, ''but I have to ask. When are you two going to give me more great grandbabies?'' She shoots her a dazzling smile. ''I've got all this hard candy and no one to give it to.''_

 _Laurel tries to laugh silently, careful not to jostle Mary too much. ''Oh, I don't know, Grandma,'' she says, trying too hard to sound breezy. ''I think we've shelved that conversation for the time being.''_

 _It's not an altogether unexpected question because people have been asking when they're going to have another since before Mary was even born but it's still not an easy question. She never knows how to answer it. She knows that he wouldn't mind having at least one more kid - hell, she knows he probably wouldn't mind having a whole football team. She's the one who doesn't really want to go there. In theory, she'd love a big family. Realistically, it doesn't seem likely. For every pro on the list, there's five cons._

 _Babies are expensive and given how rough this year has been income wise, they're barely scraping by as it is. Mary alone is already such a handful. Part of that is because of her Pendred and how much extra attention she needs with speech therapy, various doctor's appointments, and how bad her right ear is at the moment. Part of it is just her personality. She's a Winchester and a Lance and she thinks it's hilarious to run her parents ragged. And what if they have another baby and that baby ends up with Pendred syndrome too? They know they both have the gene now and - yeah, there's only a 25% chance but that's still a chance. It's not like they'd love their child any less, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't be draining. Plus, honestly, this city isn't exactly safe. Raising one child here is scary enough._

 _Not to mention, she is not exactly keen on the idea of putting her mind and body through that again. Her mental state may be better than it was a couple of months ago but it's still fragile and she doesn't want to trigger anything with a sudden influx of hormones. Maybe if things were different, if her head wasn't so full of ghosts, if things weren't so precarious._

 _Also, hey, pregnancy is terrible. People don't seem to grasp just how miserable she was. She doesn't talk about her pregnancy unless asked about it, but when she is asked about it, she's honest. She didn't like it. She was sick and tired and sore every day. Her ability to function was compromised. She was scared out of her mind. It was deeply unnerving to feel a little alien squirming around in her body. She is just not one of those women who enjoys pregnancy. It doesn't agree with her. Simple as that. She loves being a mom. She just hates being pregnant. That should be okay._

 _If she is being completely honest, her issue is that it feels like a frightening and painful violation of her body. That is not something she's shared with a lot of people because it's one of those things she doesn't trust a lot of people with but that's it. That's her problem. Not having control of her body is, as it turns out, a huge trigger for her. She's never had control of her mind and that's something she is still working to come to terms with in a healthy way, but her body has always been hers. Losing that control was horrifying to her. If she were to tell people that, they'd just label her as overdramatic. She's sure there are women out there who have totally easy pregnancies and deliveries and have no problems but she didn't. Why is her experience less valid than theirs? And why is it that whenever she dares to express negative emotions about what she considers to be an awful experience, she's always considered whiny? She's getting real tired of being labeled unstable because she has human emotions about things._

 _Maybe they'll revisit the idea in a few years when her head is, hopefully, a little clearer, and they've talked about it some more. Maybe in awhile - months, years, who knows - she'll wake up, her biological clock will be ticking, and she'll decide that maybe just one more might not be the end of the world, but right now, she's good with just Mary. And so is Dean._

 _''We're happy with our Mary Bea,'' she tacks on with a smile, running a hand over Mary's baby soft, light hair._

 _Grandma doesn't say anything else. She doesn't push the issue like some people (read: her father) have been lately. She just says, ''She certainly is a pistol, isn't she?''_

 _That would be an understatement._

 _''You've done a good job with her,'' Grandma adds. ''Both of you. She's a joy.''_

 _Laurel smiles. ''She is.''_

 _Nothing else is said for a few minutes. They sit in companionable silence while Grandma finishes up her game of solitaire and Laurel watches her, trying to memorize the moment. She wishes her grandfather could have been here to see this, to meet Mary, to reunite with Sara, to sit here with them. He would have been such an amazing great grandfather._

 _''How are you feeling lately?'' Grandma asks after a few moments. Her voice is uncharacteristically serious. She gathers up the cards. ''You mentioned you had a sore throat when we talked last week.''_

 _''You remember that?'' Laurel huffs out a small laugh. ''It was nothing,'' she waves it off. ''Just a virus. We're pretty sure Mary must have picked it up at the park.''_

 _Grandma nods, looking unusually relieved about something as innocuous as a sore throat. She puts the deck of cards on the table and leans back in her chair. ''And how are you feeling otherwise?'' She sounds cautious just asking the question, and Bea Drake never sounds cautious._

 _Laurel watches worry seep into her grandmother's grayish-blue eyes. It's the same look she gave her when she learned about her panic attacks. She glances back down at Mary, just so she can tear herself away from the concern burning bright in Grandma's eyes. She tried so hard to keep her pain a secret from her grandmother, to spare her the burden of watching her granddaughter unravel. She should have known that would never work. She has never been able to keep secrets from her grandmother. The unpleasant feeling in her gut, easily recognizable as guilt, gnaws away at her insides. ''I'm...'' She pauses. She tries to come up with something to say that will be enough. ''I'm getting better.''_

 _She's not sure what else she can say. She could lie and say she's healed completely and that nothing like that will ever happen again. She could say that she'll never again splinter apart, that she will always be able to recover, to make it over the mountain, but there's no way of knowing if that's the truth. She could say that her mind is no longer a battlefield, except that it has been a place of wreckage for twenty-nine years. She's alive. That's all she can offer. She's here, and she's still breathing._

 _Is that not good enough?_

 _She's thinking of taking up smoking again like she did after the boat went down. There's this ugly thing inside of her telling her that if she trades one addiction for another, if she dies slowly instead of all at once, maybe no one will try to stop her. Cigarettes make her sick but she could be a smoker, she thinks. Maybe a part of her would even welcome the sickness. Except that Dean used to smoke when he was younger, long before her, before any of it, back when there was just bars and back alleys and the open road. She could be a smoker but she doesn't want to remind him of those wide open spaces she's keeping him from. She doesn't want him to know that the world is waiting for him because she doesn't want him to leave. That is her selfishness. She is not a back alley he can walk away from._

 _These days, she's traded drinking, Xanax, and sleeping pills for a lot of intense counseling. It doesn't give her a high or numb her into oblivion and it's still hard to sleep without the pills but therapy fills some of the spaces. It kills the time. She goes to therapy. She attends AA meetings almost every day. If all she can hear is the roar and her hands are shaking and she can't remember why she quit, she goes twice a day. She's started working out again - she goes to the gym on Fridays, yoga on Saturdays, she jogs every morning. She's eating healthier. She's gained back some of the weight she lost. She's back at work, throwing herself into every case, more determined than ever to save the world. (Hey, if she doesn't, who will?)_

 _She is rebuilding. She is coming home. She no longer stifles screams under the hot spray of the shower because everything hurts and she can't make it stop. She is able to smile now, and make it real. She kisses her husband, she sings her daughter to sleep, she has lunch with friends, and she is working on repairing things with Sara. She feels something other than the hurt now. The misery is quieter. It's still there, it has always been there, but it's quieter. The raging sea inside of her has calmed down now. She thinks she could be healing. She thinks this might be what recovery feels like._

 _She'd like to give credit where credit's due and thank Dean for saving her life that night but every time she tries, he just looks at her oddly and says, ''What did I do? This survival is yours. You're the one who did all the hard work. You decided to stay, Laur. I didn't make that choice for you.''_

 _How is she?_

 _Well, it's simple, really. She's got a restless, reckless heart and her bones still ache every day but she is learning to be grateful. She made it through February. She made it through March. Now she just has to make it through April and every month after that. She thinks she can find a reason to do that._

 _''It's been a long year,'' she says. It's been a long life. She smiles then, pulls her lips back into this wide grin, tests it out until it feels like it fits, and adds on, softly, genuinely, ''Today was a good day.''_

 _Her grandmother smiles back. She leans across to bring her hand to Laurel's cheek. ''I'm glad.'' Abruptly, the smile drops off her face and she draws her hand away. ''I'm sorry,'' she says. ''I'm so sorry for everything you've been through.''_

 _''Well, it...'' Laurel frowns. ''It's not your fault, Grandma.''_

 _Grandma looks, for some reason, like she doesn't agree with that. ''No,'' she agrees finally. ''Maybe not. But you're my granddaughter. I wish there was a way I could make this better for you.''_

 _Laurel has to press her lips together. She swallows hard and tries not to think too hard about how nice it would be to have all of her pain washed away. It would be nice to have the weight so effortlessly lifted off her shoulders by something as simple as a hug from her beloved grandmother. That's not how this works. She knows that. You can't wave your hands and magically fix everything or make the pain go away. It sure is a nice thought. It's just not realistic. ''Me too,'' she admits in a very small, quiet voice._

 _Grandma doesn't abruptly push past the subject. She doesn't seem burdened or bothered by Laurel emotions. She just places her hand over Laurel's once more and gives it a gentle squeeze. ''Never forget that you're a Drake as much as you are a Lance,'' she says. ''Drake women are strong. We are infinite galaxies of courage. You'll get through this.'' There is zero trace of doubt in her voice. ''It's in your blood to be lionhearted.''_

 _Right, sure. Okay. Laurel does know that. She has spent her entire life having it drilled into her head that Drake women are strong, that Lances never give up, that she has to endure and try and keep trying. It's kind of an impossible standard to live up to. ''Do you ever get tired of being strong?'' She asks. Her voice sounds almost childlike. ''I mean, I try. I do. I try my best to be strong and bold and brave. I - I became a lawyer to help people. I do what I believe is right, even when people think I'm wrong or too weak. I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I get out of bed in the morning. I...'' She pauses, frowning thoughtfully. ''I am not weak.'' She says it firmly, with conviction. It doesn't feel like a lie the way it used to. ''But it's so hard sometimes.'' She ducks her head to avoid the inevitable pity or worry. She looks at Mary and wonders, not for the first time, how much she has hurt her over the past few months._

 _Mary may be young but she's smart. She felt that tension. She felt the fear and the anger and the overwhelming sadness that permeated her mother for so long. Laurel has made a lot of bad decisions in her life, has ruined a lot, but the one thing that still keeps her awake at night is what she did to Mary. She is her mother. Her arms are supposed to be a place of safety. Your parents are supposed to be your soft place to land. She can't help but worry that she may have damaged that trust. She knows how easy it is to be scarred by the actions of your parents._

 _''Don't you ever wonder why we have to be strong all the time?'' She asks quietly. ''You know what I mean? Why can't we ever just be happy?'' She attempts to keep her voice light and casual, like it's not that serious of a question, but Grandma sees right through her. She's always been one of the only people who can see through her posturing at any given moment._

 _She does not seem particularly perturbed by the question nor does she seem surprised. ''Dinah Laurel,'' she starts, with a shake of her head. ''Where do you think happiness comes from? Happiness is strength and a stroke of luck. We become who we're meant to be through our suffering.''_

 _She makes suffering sound so valorous._

 _Laurel swallows a sigh. ''That seems overly simple.''_

 _Her grandmother smiles again, settling back in her chair. ''Life is simple, my dear.''_

 _Laurel doesn't answer. That's a bold statement, she thinks. It's not true either. It's a nice sentiment, but it's just not factual. There isn't always a lesson in agony, whether that agony is physical or emotional. There isn't always another side to the story. Sometimes suffering is just suffering. Perhaps part of the reason why she's been so stuck is because that's a hard truth to come to terms with. She looks at her life and the hurt that she has spent so long trying to fix to no avail. She looks at Dean, who still lives with the scars of his own grisly trauma, still wakes up, sometimes, and forgets - just for a second - that he is not still in Hell. And then she looks at Mary, their sweet, innocent girl, and she thinks: if they have been made to hurt, to break their backs under the weight of their pasts, then what does that mean for their daughter? Can they really give her a truly happy life?_

 _She is not a superhero. She's not a hunter. She's not anything but what she is. She has her own ghosts and demons and scars that she has to live with, and it's not an easy thing to do. Mary deserves a peaceful life, but Laurel has never been at peace. She will never be at peace. Neither will Dean. Given their past trauma and their precarious mental states, it's a statistical improbability. There are moments where she looks at the horrific state of the world, thinks of her own inability for true happiness, and she wonders what on earth they've done by bringing a child into their mess. It's a devastating thought and it never fails to fill her with guilt but the scariest part is that it's a valid thought._

 _Grandma believes in fate. In meant to bes and destiny and everything happens for a reason. She believes that happy endings are a given and that there is no hurt that cannot be fixed. It's not necessarily a wrong mentality to have. Especially if it gives her comfort or some kind of peace. It's just not true for everyone. Laurel does not believe in fate. Obviously, neither does Dean. They believe in free will. In choice. The problem is that not everyone chooses wisely. How exactly is she supposed to protect her child from those people?_

 _She does not regret her daughter. That's ridiculous. She will never regret their girl. She just regrets that she doesn't have the power, the control, the capability, the authority to build her a better world._

 _''The things you want find you, Star,'' Grandma says. She sounds so confident that Laurel almost believes her. ''You just have to let them. It's all a matter of patience and a little bit of faith. It's not rocket science.'' She shrugs, picking up the deck of cards from the table. ''You have to be ready first. And when the time comes to let it in, you let it in.'' She starts to shuffle the deck. ''Now,'' she says. ''How about a hand of gin rummy?''_

 _Laurel pulls her lips back into a convincing smile. ''Grandma, you know you always beat me at that game.''_

 _''Do I? I don't remember that. I'm very old, Laurel.'' Grandma tosses her a sly grin and a wink. ''Pick up your cards, dear.''_

 _Laurel looks down at Mary, one last check to make sure she's still sleeping soundly. She cranes her neck slightly to look over at Dean, still sitting at the Mahjong table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, grinning. She looks away, back to her grandmother._

 _She picks up the cards._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

Dean would like to point out, for the record, that he is handling this just fine.

An unrelenting chaos has settled in his chest, sitting there like a rock weighing him down, but outwardly, he is working extremely hard to be cool as a cucumber. It's not like the seizure came out of nowhere. He, of all people, knows that if your body is under massive amounts of stress then a seizure is on the long list of possible consequences. At least when he'd had his, he was safe in a hospital surrounded by medical professionals who were calm and focused, albeit incredibly irritating with their ''now do you understand why it's best to detox in a hospital'' condescension.

Laurel's body hasn't been in working order since April. She's gotta be working with a severe electrolyte imbalance right now. She's barely keeping small amounts of food and water down. She hasn't slept properly. She's injured, she's lost blood, she's traumatized. Her mind and body are in tatters right now, trying too hard to resume normal activity when she really should be resting. This is not a normal thing she's been through. Human bodies and human souls are not meant to go through this fucked up push and pull. You get to be here and then you get to leave. You don't get to come back. You're not meant to come back.

And yet she came back.

He has no idea how she's even managed to keep herself going for this long. She should be in bed right now. He had no business bringing her to the cemetery, bringing her here. He should have kept her hydrated and off her feet for at least 24 hours.

But _you_ try telling Laurel Lance to do something when she's already got it in her head that she needs to do something else.

You'd have to have a death wish to be that damn stupid.

If he had tried to keep her locked up in bed all day, she would have gone out the fucking window and done this on her own. At least this way he was with her when she needed someone. Which is good because he was the only one who didn't react to her seizure like a moron. It goes without question that nobody wants to see someone they care about convulse uncontrollably but guess what? It happens. Fear is no excuse for gross incompetence. A seizure is a serious medical event and it's unpleasant to watch but you can't just stand there with your thumbs up your ass like a big idiot.

There are _some people_ who haven't gotten that memo.

He was the one who managed to grab onto her and get her down to the ground so she didn't hit her head. He was the one who turned her on her side to make sure she didn't choke on her own tongue or aspirate vomit. Everyone else just reacted like they were watching her die again. To be fair, given how she died, may not have been an unfounded reaction but it sure as shit wasn't helpful. He is the one who stood in that hospital room and watched her die and he still managed to snap out of his blinding terror so he could help her. What the hell would they have done if he hadn't been there? Let her do it all on her own? Shouldn't they be trained to deal with medical issues? Momentarily freezing up due to shock and terror is bad enough. Being completely useless is another.

Maybe that's too harsh but he's not exactly in the greatest mood right now. He figures this should be understandable. His dead wife crawled out of her grave with amnesia, obliterated the cemetery with an apparent sonic scream, staggered home torn open and bloody, and then had a seizure. All in the span of like twelve hours.

He still has no clue what the fuck is happening either. He hates that. It's maddening. He needs to know what's happening so he can fix it, fix her, make things better. And he is running on fumes here. He's been running on fumes for seven miserable months because life has been consistently painful, too painful to sleep properly. Laurel's absence was this physical ache inside of him, like phantom limb pain, and it kept him up at night. He'd lie there and stare at the ceiling and it would _hurt_. His chest, his head, his fingers and toes. Every part of him hurt without her. He hasn't had a decent night's sleep in seven months.

Obviously, his pain is not worse than Laurel's - it's not in the same ballpark, it's not even in the same hemisphere - but he thinks he deserves, at the very least, a minimal amount of mercy right now.

Team Arrow does not appear to think so.

After, when it's over and her body has stopped convulsing on the cold, hard floor, Oliver snaps out of his shock enough to tear into Dean for not taking Laurel to the hospital right away. Because - yes. The dead ADA Lance/Black Canary staggering into the ER in the middle of the night months after her extremely public death is definitely a solid plan. In the ensuing chaos, after Thea has whisked Mary over to the far side of the room to shield her from what's happening, while John and Felicity are standing by the elevator, wide eyed, and Oliver is standing behind Dean, berating him like a child for not ''dealing with this properly,'' Sara runs.

Sara flees.

Dean does not see this as atypical behavior. Oliver seems to be surprised, pausing in his ranting, frowning and calling after her, and Felicity tries to grasp onto her arm as she races past. Dean doesn't get that. It's Sara. This is what she does. Do they not know that? Or is it just Laurel who she runs from? He may not know his sister-in-law as well as he should but he recognizes a runner when he sees one. He is one. The night Laurel told him she was pregnant, he waited until she was sleep, packed a bag, and made it all the way to the elevator before his knees went weak. He's seen that same terror, that same fear of failure, in Sara's eyes since the day he first met her. The difference is that when those elevator doors opened and he was left looking at his way out, he realized that if he got in and didn't look back, he would be making the worst decision of his life. He's not sure Sara's reached that breaking point yet.

Reluctantly, grumbling under his breath, he barks out a few orders, leaves Laurel in John's capable - although shell shocked - hands and follows Sara up into the sunlight. It's not his problem if she feels the need to pull a fucking Houdini, let's get that straight. It is not his job to coddle her. She's a grown woman.

This shit is what she does, what she's always done, and it's not going to change. She leaves. Over and over and over again, she leaves. She blows back into Laurel's life, into Mary's life, promising movie nights and family time, asking for connections and bonds, and then she fucks off to assassin school or the other side of the globe or her stupid goddamned spaceship. She lets down Laurel, she lets down Mary, and he's the one left behind to fix the destruction she leaves in her wake. It's been that way since she came back the first time. Laurel has only ever wanted Sara. Sara has always wanted more. He's made sure to tell Laurel that it's not about her, that Sara is just looking for something she can't find here, that she is not running from her, but sometimes he can't help but feel like he's lying to her.

Laurel _died_ , and when Sara found out, she told him that she wanted to help him, that she wanted to help Mary. She knelt in front of her dead sister's grave with a bouquet of flowers and told him that she was going to stay. She told him that she was going to find a way to bring Laurel home. And then she ran. That was May. He didn't see her again until a couple of weeks ago when she brought her tornado self back to Star City to help plan Mary's birthday party.

Whatever. She pulls this shit all the time. It's what she does. It's who she is. It's frustrating and he's pissed that she holds this much power over his wife and daughter and that she keeps disappointing them, but it is what it is. If she wants to run, that's her prerogative. But she's not doing it now. He is not letting Laurel wake up without her sister by her side. Sara can run scared later.

The early November air is unusually frigid when he steps outside, the sunny blue skies doing nothing to warm the icy breeze most likely coming off the water. It sinks into his bones uncomfortably, whipping right through his jacket and down to his bones. The first thing he notices when he sees her standing there, back to him, breathing heavily, is that she's not even wearing a jacket. Sometimes he's not sure how this girl's still alive. He feels like he should remind her that Laurel didn't give her life so she could wither away and catch pneumonia.

He doesn't say anything to her. He keeps a careful eye on her but avoids actual interaction for as long as possible. He's never entirely sure how to interact with Sara. They're not friends. They're family. She laughs at his dumb jokes - sometimes she's the only one who does - and he's the only one willing to watch movies with her because of her weird taste. If someone hurts her, he'll rip their throat right out. But they are not friends. They push each other's buttons too much. Some of it is just teasing. Some of it is more than that. He's not sure if the problem is that they're too different, too similar, or just too mutually overprotective of Laurel and suspicious of each other. Whatever the issue is, they're not people who can spent a lot of time together. It always ends in fighting.

Dean leans one shoulder up against the brick wall and crosses his arms, waiting patiently for her to get it together. He gives her another minute. When it becomes clear that she's not going to make the first move, he rolls his eyes and unenthusiastically takes the plunge. ''You gonna let me in on whatever's rollin' around in that head of yours?''

She whirls around to face him, anger washing over her face, seeping into her wide eyes. ''What did you do?'' Her voice is cold and hard.

He sets his jaw. Oh, he is so not in the mood for this right now. ''Nothing.''

She scoffs. ''I don't believe you.''

He doesn't move from his lazy, casual position and he doesn't bother to waste time raising his voice at her. ''That's not my problem,'' he tells her, keeping his voice as even as possible. ''Believe what you want.''

She takes a few steps in his direction, narrowing her eyes. ''You were the one who was so adamant you were going to bring her back.''

He drops his gaze to the ground. What is he supposed to say to that? Should he detail all of the things he did? All of the ways he tried to bring Laurel home? The crossroads, bargaining with Death, with Crowley, witchcraft, even a pathetic attempt to blackmail an angel. He did everything he could think of and more. He would have kept trying. There's not a doubt in his mind. If it weren't for the little girl who looked at him like he meant something, who smiled at him and signed a cheery _I love you_ when she caught him looking at her while she was playing with her stuffed animals, he would have chased Laurel forever. He'd have done anything. He doesn't tell her this. What could she say?

''I seem to remember you saying the same thing,'' he reminds her. ''How do I know you didn't have something to do with this?''

She presses her lips into a thin line. ''I didn't.''

He shrugs. ''Then I guess we both failed her.''

Sara's carefully constructed mask of frustration crumbles, giving way to something else. She looks, for a brief second, ashamed. He pushes off the wall, uncrossing his arms and clenching his fists to keep from reaching for her. She looks away. ''You really didn't do this?''

''No. She...'' He trails off. The image of Laurel standing on the front steps, filthy and wild eyed is not one that's going to leave his head anytime soon. She bled on the floors last night; on the concrete steps, the bathroom tiles, smeared on the white porcelain of the sink, staining the sheets on the bed from a cut on her shoulder that must have opened up and oozed during the night while she was tossing and turning. He cleaned up the blood on the floor, he put the sheets in the washing machine, but it's hard to get blood out of concrete. It's hard to scrub it from your hands. ''I had nothing to do with this,'' he says tightly. ''She showed up in the middle of the night. All I did was open the door.''

She doesn't argue with him. She tilts her head to the side and eyes him critically, like she's searching for a sign of dishonesty in his body language. When she presumably finds none, she looks up at the skies above and exhales sharply. ''God.'' She brings both hands to her face to rub at her eyes. He can't help but notice that she seems disappointingly distressed by her sister's reappearance in their lives. Maybe that's too strong of a judgment, but other than her instinctive joy at seeing Laurel for the first time, there is little relief on her face. He wants her increasing unhappiness to be because she doesn't like seeing Laurel in pain or because resurrection is way too often a precarious thing or even because it's bringing back bad memories of her own comeback. He wants her concern to be for Laurel.

Generally speaking, that's not the way things tend to go around here.

''This is bad, Dean,'' she sighs.

In the daylight, pale under the brightness of the sun, she looks terrible. It's easier to see the bags under her eyes, the sharp lines of her cheekbones. He can't help but wonder, not for the first time, how much sleep she's been getting on that absurd time machine of hers. Do they have beds on that thing? Food? Does she look so rough because she's been running around playing Doctor Who or is it something else? Does she have people on that thing to watch her back, not just when they're in battle, but when they're not? He knows he can't lecture her about getting sleep without sounding like a hypocrite but he does worry about her.

''She'll heal,'' he offers.

''Right,'' she agrees hollowly. ''But that's not what I meant.'' She looks at him then, with this pitying look on her face and she admits, very softly, ''She's not supposed to be here.''

He tries to muster up the energy to be angry or surprised or... _something_. He can't. He's tired, he wants to get back to Laurel and Mary, he's impatient for Sam and Cas to get their asses back here, and this just isn't a conversation he wants to have. If he's being blunt, Sara has been trying to lose herself in self righteousness like she's trying to find Laurel in relentless morality for months now. It shouldn't be surprising that she'd adopt some black and white _what's dead is dead_ mentality to try to give herself some kind of half assed cold comfort. He did the same thing once. And then he pulled his head out of his ass and grew up.

You kind of have to change your worldview when you climb out of your own grave.

He stares at her blankly, watching her fidget as she waits for him to react to what she's said. ''Neither are we,'' he deadpans, finally. ''But here we are, Sara. How is this any different?''

He can see her scrambling to come up with an explanation. ''Look,'' she chews on her bottom lip. ''I couldn't fix it. I couldn't save her. I wanted to. You have to believe me. You have no idea how much I,'' her voice cracks. She shakes her head, refusing to meet his eyes. ''It was out of my hands. Her death was a fixed point in time. I couldn't go back and rewrite history.''

He laughs at her. It is not a particularly kind laugh. ''Right, yeah, I'm sure you've never done that. Your entire job is to rewrite history but, sure, Sara, okay.''

''No,'' she snaps hotly. ''My job is to _protect_ history.''

He nods. ''Okay.''

''You're being really condescending right now.''

''Okay.''

''Quit saying that,'' she glowers.

He looks at her pointedly, leans in a little closer to her, and says, slowly, ''Okay.''

She has to stop to take in what looks like a few deep, calming breaths. ''My job is to protect history,'' she repeats, and he bites back another bitter laugh. ''It's also to protect my family.''

Something in him snaps. ''Oh?'' He hums contemplatively. ''Well, your dead sister says thanks for your protection,'' he sneers.

She visibly falters at the tone of his voice, stepping away from him. The wounded look on her face crumbles away quicker than it appeared, leaving a storm of rage and indignation in place. It would hold more weight if it wasn't a constant weapon in her arsenal against him. ''Fine,'' she spits. ''Let's try it your way. Say I go back in time to save her. Say it works. Laurel's alive but so is Darhk and he still wants revenge against my father. He wants bloodshed and he wants my family to suffer. Tell me,'' she glares. ''Who do you think is the most innocent, defenseless member of this family?''

Something coils nauseatingly in his gut but he can't decide if it's horror or anger. He decides on anger. It's easier. He knows how to navigate it better. '' _Don't_ ,'' he points a warning finger at her. ''Don't you dare use my daughter as a justification.''

''Why don't you go fu - ''

''And why wouldn't you take Darhk out _before_ he escapes? Why wouldn't you just go back to before the riot when he was defenseless and powerless behind bars and take him out then?'' He shakes his head, disappointed but unsurprised. ''Seven fucking months, Sara. Two hundred and eight days. That's how long she's been gone.''

''I know exactly how long she's been gone,'' she says brusquely. ''Thanks for the reminder.''

''I've spent every one of those days,'' he continues, barreling past her words with ease, ''thinking of all the ways she could have been saved. And there are a lot of ways, Sara. What happened to her was bullshit and you know it. It was senseless.''

''Death is always senseless.''

''It would have been _easy_. It would have been easy to - ''

''You think it would have been _easy_ to just kill Darhk?''

He stiffens, body going cold. His hands clench into fists at his side. He cocks his head to the side and thinks of May. It's all still a blur in his head - this haze of sleep deprivation, uncontrollable rage, and a sick, desperate sort of grief - but he remembers blood. It was on his hands, his clothes, his face, underneath his fingernails. He hadn't minded so much that night. He wasn't really there anyway. He has these flashes of a scalpel glinting in the light, a gun heavy in his hands, and how disturbingly, disappointingly easy it was not only to kill the man who took Laurel away but to break him down first.

And he had broken him. He made sure of it.

He hadn't just killed Darhk. He had taken him apart. He had carved him up before anyone could stop him and it had, in fact, been easy. He had done what Oliver couldn't. Evidently, he had done what nobody else would. It hadn't helped. It hadn't given him anything. All it had given him was the knowledge that the man who managed to take Laurel out of the world was a pathetic weasel who would have been dead months ago if the team that was supposed to be watching her back hadn't been so wishy washy. If he had gotten off his ass to help her earlier. If someone, anyone, had just done _something_. ''I found it easy,'' he says, sounding deceptively calm.

Sara goes completely silent. Her lips part like she wants to say something but she can't figure out what to say. ''Dean,'' she says, and then stops. She bites down on her bottom lip, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing at her forehead tiredly. ''You know what?'' She sounds exasperated. ''Say whatever you want about me. I don't care.'' She opens her eyes, giving him this openly judgmental onceover. ''I was protecting Mary. You really think you would have survived losing your child? Do you think Laurel would have?'' She huffs out a bitter laugh. ''No. No, there's no way. You would both be dead by now. Or _worse_.'' She sounds like she's been reciting these words to herself over and over for months.

He'd make an attempt to deprogram her, point out the gaping holes in her logic, or even just straight up tell her, _kid, someone is lying to you_ , but he doesn't care that much right now. She brought his daughter into this. She's been using Mary like an object to justify her own inaction. She doesn't get to do that. Not with his child. Mary is not a pawn in whatever games she's playing with her own mind.

''I love my sister,'' she says. ''I would have saved her if it was possible. I would have done anything to bring her back or take her place but some things you can't fix. The timeline - ''

''Fuck the timeline,'' he intones. ''No, really. I mean it. Screw the timeline, Sara. That whole world saving business? It's not my problem anymore. I'm retired. Burn the damn thing down for all I care.''

''Liar.''

''The only job I have now is protecting my girls. Even if that means from you. Especially if that means from you.''

''You don't understand.''

''What I understand,'' he hisses at her, ''is that your sister dug your rotting corpse out of the ground and threw you in a magical hot tub to bring your sorry ass home and when she needed you the most, you couldn't even be bothered to lift a finger to help her.''

Silence.

Sara gapes at him for a long time. For a moment, the only emotion on her face is shock. The shock is easier to digest. It's the way her face falls that's hard to stomach. She swallows visibly, this sickening look of pain and mortification crossing her face. Her eyes well with tears and she lowers her gaze to the ground. He takes a step back, mildly stunned by his own words. He's willing to admit he might have taken things a hair too far with that one. He hadn't meant to. He hadn't come out here intending to act like an asshole. There are some bitter, unfair thoughts you keep to yourself. He's been _trying._ They have said a lot of nasty shit to each other over the years they've known each other. It was an easy relationship to fall into. He treats her like a pest; some annoying kid who hangs around, nipping at his heels. Her favourite nickname for him is ''fucking loser.'' Neither of them think the other is good enough for Laurel. It's just. The way they are.

He's never made her cry before.

When she eventually raises her head, eyes burning, all he manages to get out is, ''Sara, wait'' and that's it. He sees her curl her hand into a fist just seconds too late. The punch isn't surprising - or undeserved - but that doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt like a motherfucker. She may be tiny but she's mighty. She smashes her small fist into his nose with the kind of violence that only comes from hurt, anger, and shame all bunched together inside of her to create a sickness she can only get out by making people hurt the same way she does. Her recognizes that violence. He's lived with it his entire life.

He stumbles at the force of the punch, eyes watering, instinctively holding both hands to his nose as the blood begins to flow.

''Go fuck yourself,'' he hears her snarl.

He doesn't see her leave because all he can see are the whirling stars and dancing black spots but he hears her footfalls as she walks away from him, getting quieter, quieter, quiet. He blinks to clear his vision. There's blood in his mouth.

In theory, if one of the Lance sisters were to kill him, it would most likely be Laurel. She knows his body, all the flaws and the faults, the weak spots and how to get under his skin and inside his head. It's one of those facts that makes him squirm when he thinks about it. He's let her so far inside of him that she could ruin him without breaking a sweat. She almost did just by dying. There are very few people who hold that kind of power over him. But - and sometimes he forgets this while he's watching her lie on the couch, watching Haunted Honeymoon, getting crumbs all over his couch - Sara is an assassin. Literally, the girl is a trained killer. He's lucky all she did was punch him in the nose.

''Wooow,'' a voice says from behind him. ''Anyone ever told you that you two have a massively unhealthy relationship?''

He grunts, annoyed, but doesn't respond or turn around. If he opens his mouth, more blood will run into it and he's getting real sick and tired of the taste of blood.

''That was quite the show,'' Thea goes on, boots clicking on the cobblestone as she makes her way over to him. She effortlessly pushes into his personal space without a second thought. Her hands are cold on his skin as she grabs his face, swatting his protesting hands away so she can inspect the damage. ''Tilt your head back,'' she orders.

He wants to tell her that he doesn't need her to take care of him, that he's been punched in the face plenty of times before and that he'll probably be punched in the face again, but he can't seem to find his voice. Her hands are soft on his skin, her mouth pulled tight with concern, her eyes frantically looking over his injury to see how bad it is, and he is still not the kind of person who knows what to do with gentleness.

''I don't think it's broken,'' she says, right before she presses a handkerchief to his noise to staunch the flow of blood. He doesn't even bother to wonder what the hell she's doing with a handkerchief. He stopped being surprised about what she pulls out of that giant bag of hers when she started pulling whole trays of muffins out of there a few weeks back. ''Gotta say, Dean,'' she sighs. ''You might've deserved this one. Like, not completely. But that was a shitty thing you said.''

''Yeah,'' he mutters gruffly. ''Well.'' That's all he says. He takes over for her, softly moving her hands from his face so he can get the rest of the blood off. She wrinkles her nose in disgust and wipes her hands on his shirt. He'd complain but he has literally wiped Mary's nose with his shirt before. In public. More than once. At least this is his own bodily fluids. ''She'll get over it,'' he lies. ''You and I have said worse to each other and we're cool, right?''

''That was different,'' Thea says stiffly. He arches an eyebrow at her and she sighs, rolling her eyes. ''Maybe it wasn't that different. But still, Dean. You really think you're going to be able to fix this one with froyo?''

''I'll splurge for extra sprinkles this time.''

She shakes her head at him. ''I'm telling you. Massively dysfunctional.''

He rolls his eyes. He turns to the side to spit out the blood that's dribbled into his mouth. ''We're not that bad.''

She gives him a look, propping her hands up on her hips. ''You keep a carton of her favourite ice cream in the freezer just so you can eat it in front of her.''

''Well, she dog eared all the pages of my books. She didn't even read them. She just damaged my property.''

''Are you being serious right now?''

''She wrote in the margins, Thea! What kind of an animal does that?!''

She laughs and for the first time in a long time, it doesn't sound phony and exhausted. ''Even after knowing you for a few years, I'm still kinda surprised by what a huge nerd you are.''

''Shut up,'' he mumbles under his breath. ''My wife thinks I'm adorable.'' He turns away from her so he can blow the remaining blood out of his nose. She was right when she said it wasn't broken and it's not even bruised as badly as it could have been but it still hurts. He gets the feeling Sara went easy on him, even despite her anger. Still, he did not expect to be punched in the face today. ...In hindsight, he maybe should have. He turns back to her, waving the bloodied handkerchief in her face. ''Did you want this back?''

''Um.'' She curls her lip back in disgust. Slowly, she reaches out to pat him on the shoulder. Rather patronizingly. ''You keep it.''

He shrugs, shoving the thing into his pocket. ''So, hey,'' he says, gesturing vaguely to where her little shadow would normally be. ''Quick question: Where's my kid?''

''She's watching Paw Patrol. She's got her headphones on. She's got Sharkie. She's lost to the world. I asked Felicity to keep an eye on her for a few minutes.''

That doesn't make him feel better. Mary barely knows Felicity. He barely knows Felicity. And she's part of a team of people he doesn't trust. He wouldn't leave her alone with a hamster let alone his four year old.

''Don't spiral,'' Thea says, holding a hand up. ''Because Sara's down there now. So it's fine. You trust my decision making skills when it comes to Mary, don't you?''

''Yes, but - ''

''Good. Then don't helicopter.''

''I'm not helicoptering.''

''You're helicoptering a little.''

He sighs, closing his eyes briefly.

''What do you need, Thea?''

The smile drops off her face. ''Right, um, well...'' She reaches up to rub at the back of her neck. ''I was thinking... I don't want to leave Laurel right now but I think maybe I should get Mary out of here.'' She sounds apologetic, like she's expecting him to disagree. Honestly, if it's a fight she's looking for, she's not going to find one with him.

''That's probably a good idea,'' he admits. ''There's - '' He cuts himself off, blinking back the memory of Laurel convulsing and choking on the floor. ''She shouldn't see her mother like this.''

''Agreed,'' Thea mumbles, dropping her eyes to the ground.

Huh.

Maybe Mary isn't the only one who shouldn't see Laurel like this.

He's not going to go around announcing that out loud because Thea would just get stubborn and dig her heels in, fervently denying that she needs to be protected like a child. She is not, for the record, a child. He's not so far gone that he can't see that. She's an adult. She ran her own business. She's the Chief of Staff for the freaking Mayor. She's his daughter's nanny. She's better at being an adult than he is. It's just that he's noticed the fear in her eyes when she looks at Laurel. He's noticed the hesitance, the way she's been afraid to touch her, to speak above a whisper, even to breathe too loudly. He's seen the determined cheerfulness and forced calm. She's freaking out.

Everyone mourned Laurel - some more than others - but Thea is the only one who kept a weekly appointment with her grief and never missed a day. Dean went off the rails completely. He stopped sleeping, he tried to find his dead wife in her evil doppelganger, and he made sure that when he pulled Damien Darhk's fingernails off, he did it slowly. Sara, by the looks of it, has spent the past seven months wading through history in some misguided attempt to outrun her own grief and guilt. Quentin seems damn determined to die. Even Oliver lost his shit and built an ugly statue to alleviate his own guilt. Or possibly to jerk off to. Maybe both. They've all gotten so lost and it's - There's not always a way out of that.

Thea has opted to handle her grief in a different way.

Every Wednesday, rain or shine, she gets a large latte and a blueberry muffin from the same place, she goes to the florist to pick up the order she called in the night before, and then she goes to the graveyard. She visits her parents first, then Tommy, and then Laurel. She clears away leaves and twigs and debris, she polishes the gravestones, and then she lays down bouquets of flowers. She spends a decent amount of time with each of them. Sits cross legged in front of the stones and updates them on everything that's happening while she sips her coffee and pretends that they can hear her. She tells each and every one of them how much she loves them and misses them and wishes they were here. Every Wednesday she follows this same exact routine from the flowers she orders to the kind of muffin she gets. Every week, she makes that trip and she stands in front of her almost entirely wiped out family, and then she goes home and plays house with him. He knows that because she showed him.

One warm day in August, she took him with her because she thought maybe it would help him. It hadn't. Visiting cemeteries has never helped him cope with anything. He stood in front of Laurel's grave and listened while Thea talked to a piece of rock like it was really her and all he could think about was the suffocating darkness of the earth. It was something he would never forget. Just that constant, choking darkness. Like being asphyxiated for eternity. That was what he had given to Laurel. That was the last thing he ever gave her. Could she feel it? Was she scared under all that dirt? Was she cold? Stupid things to think about, maybe. Of course she wasn't cold. She was dead. Whatever had been stuffed in that box and buried wasn't her. It was a body with nothing inside of it. But that had been what he'd thought about when Thea took him to the graveyard that day.

Why hadn't he fought harder to have her cremated? Why hadn't he protected her? Why did he let them get away with this? Why did he allow them to cage her when he could have stopped them? How could he have been so stupid and selfish and weak? He should have done a better job of honoring her. He owed her that much, didn't he? He owed her everything.

In general, he doesn't think he sees graves the way other people do. They look at them and see these tangible pieces of peace, the last real part of someone they loved and lost. They look at graves and see a safe place where they can put all of that love that no longer has anywhere else to go. He looks at them and his brain immediately calculates how long it would take to dig it up, how long it took him to get out when he was in one, how long the body has been dead for, and what it would look like if he opened the casket up.

Thea is not like him. She believes that what she does every Wednesday means something. She believes that it's helping her. He tends to disagree with that assessment, worries about her getting stuck in a depressing routine that won't allow her to move on and let go, but if it brings her a sense of purpose, he's not going to fuck with it.

The things he did with his grief - the things Oliver and Sara and Quentin did - were selfish and self serving. They made their choices because they were scared of the pain. They wanted to make themselves feel better. They wanted to stop hurting. Thea acknowledges her pain. She's made a place for it on Wednesdays. She is the only one who took her grief, an inherently selfish thing, and turned it into selflessness. She hung up her mask to raise Laurel's child. To be Oliver's unqualified but frighteningly capable Chief of Staff. She hands out all of these ego stroking pep talks to all of the men Laurel put it upon herself to coddle daily. She has been working her ass off to model herself after Laurel, to soften her voice, to choose her words the way Laurel would have, to make the same choices, to take up the space she used to reside in. Even her standing Wednesday appointment began because she wanted to take care of the people she loves.

''Someone has to take care of them,'' she had told him that day in August, while he was leaning against his car, impatient to leave, and she was looking back at the graveyard, at Laurel. ''We couldn't do that while they were alive but I can try my best now, right? This is all there is now, Dean. I know you think this is stupid but graves are built so people can remember the dead. I'm making sure I never forget.''

It's remarkable. She's remarkable.

It's also really fucking worrying. Dean has seen Thea break down and lose it exactly once since April 6th. She has looked exhausted every day for months now, but she has not lost it since the afternoon of the funeral. She's turned her sorrow into a routine. He's concerned about what will happen once it fully sinks in that her routine, the one thing keeping her from falling apart, has been broken and won't ever be repaired again. He's concerned about what she'll do when she realizes that there's nowhere to put this pain anymore. He knows he can't rightfully ask her to step away from this. She's an adult. He can't control her and he doesn't have any interest in trying to. What he can ask her to do is get Mary out of the mess and hope it works to shield them both from whatever is about to happen.

''You know,'' he says, trying to keep his voice casual. ''Story Time starts in an hour at the library.'' On any other day, Story Time would not be his first choice when it comes to places to take his daughter. It's not Mary's favourite place. She likes it better than she likes preschool, which is technically where she should be right now, but she doesn't like crowds and nobody likes the fact that she has to ask ''what?'' every three seconds because she's missing bits and pieces of the story due to her hearing. This is not any other day.

Thea sags against the wall. ''I know. I think I'm going to run out and get Laurel some essentials from the store and then Mary and I are going to head to the library. Maybe we'll stop by my office after that. I was supposed to be going over applications for interns today. She can help me.''

There's a joke in there but he can't decide if it's about nepotism or that a four year old working in the Mayor's office is pretty on par with what's going on there these days.

He frowns in concern, taking a few careful steps closer to her. ''Kiddo, are you okay?''

''Of course,'' she responds immediately. ''I'm - Laurel's back.'' She forces a smile. ''Why wouldn't I be okay? This is amazing, isn't it?''

Dean exhales slowly and doesn't answer the question. ''Just keep your phone on, okay?''

''Always,'' she nods. ''I expect you to text me updates about her condition.''

''Thea,'' he says. He places a hand on her arm, trying in vain to be soft and gentle with her the way he is with Mary. He's exhausted and quickly approaching the end of his rope, but he's trying. ''She's going to be fine.''

She rubs the back of her neck uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at him. She looks haggard in the daylight, worry lighting up every part of her from her tense limbs to her pinched expression. She doesn't look like she believes him. Just as she opens her mouth to respond, someone clears their throat from off to the side.

''Dean,'' John says, hands clenched at his fists. ''Laurel's asking for you.''

.

.

.

 **April, 2016**

 _Laurel wanted to travel. It was something that was always in the back of her mind. Something to look forward to. She wanted to see the world. Visit art galleries and museums. Jump off of a waterfall. Start a postcard collection from every place she'd ever been. Immerse herself in the history and the culture of every place she stepped foot in. She wanted to sunbathe on every sunny beach in the world. She wanted to eat the food, hear the music, meet the people, take enough pictures to fill a bunch of scrapbooks. She wanted to do everything. She wanted to see everything._

 _She never got that chance._

 _Sure, she traveled._

 _He knows all the places she's been, even the trips before him. Seattle, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Hawaii for a friend's wedding, Vancouver, Disneyland when she was ten, several trips to Coast City and Gotham. He knows all about the miserable trip she and Oliver took to Paris after high school graduation where they fought the whole time and came back temporarily broken up. He knows that she scrimped and saved and worked over time at the cafe she had been waitressing at to be able to afford to go to Thailand with Sara for two weeks less than a year before Sara got on that boat. He knows that one of her favourite places on earth was the Merlyn house in Lake Tahoe. He knows these things. He's seen the pictures. He's heard all the stories._

 _It's not like she spent her entire life trapped in this city._

 _But she wanted more. She wanted Australia, Asia, Europe, the Caribbean. London, Belize, Mexico, India. She wanted Bali and Tokyo and Barbados and Melbourne. Beaches, history, living out of a suitcase, eating way too much food, and once in a lifetime experiences._

 _He never would have been able to give her that._

 _They had managed to go on a few short trips over the years, sneaking away for Thanksgiving and weekends in the summer. On their first anniversary, they went to Seattle for a weekend. Coast City was their regular place to go in the summer. Disneyland was one of those things that they were going to make happen for their kid no matter what. But he never would have been able to give her Paris or Lake Tahoe. Seeing the world is expensive and he has never been able to contribute much financially to this relationship._

 _Laurel used to have this idea in her head that after Mary was grown and off to college, she would retire and they would go off together to see the world. It was a dream. One that likely never would have happened, but it was a dream that made her happy. It was a goal she set for herself. Something that was important to her._

 _One of the things he had been able to give her was Big Sur, California. In the summer of 2014, after Slade Wilson's brainless siege, Laurel overworked herself literally to the point of collapse. She was taking care of her father in the hospital with zero help from her mother or sister, she was working full time both at the DA's office and with Oliver and his team as a legal consultant, and she was trying to be supermom to Mary, who was still struggling with being newly deaf in one ear. Dean tried to lighten her load the best he could. He took care of her dad while she was at work and he tried to take point with Mary but she refused to slow down. That was Laurel for you. By mid July, she was mentally and physically wrung out, halfway to a relapse, and no one else seemed to notice._

 _When she wound up passing out while she was visiting her grandmother because she hadn't had time to eat all day long, he decided enough was enough and he needed to get her the hell out of the city for at least a few days. So he brought up Big Sur. It was somewhere she had always wanted to go. Back when she was planning a big wedding, she wanted the wedding to be in Big Sur and the honeymoon to be in Venice. She was willing to scrimp on everything else if she got Big Sur and Venice. When she got pregnant and they decided to go for a quick courthouse wedding to save money, he'd promised her that she would still get to see those places. Over time, it became one of those things that they kept talking about but their conversations always ended with, ''Someday, maybe.''_

 _He brought up the idea of finally taking that trip to Big Sur to her at the dinner table, while she was half asleep and unsuccessfully trying to feed Mary dinner without her throwing it across the room. She hadn't even protested. She hadn't complained about money. Hadn't mentioned her father or work. She'd just said, somewhat guiltily, while dodging a piece of pasta that Mary threw at her with a screeching giggle, ''A break would be nice.''_

 _A couple of weeks after that, they left Mary with Charlie and Cas for a week and left town. She slept for almost the entire first day there while he spent his time twitching angrily every time Oliver sent her yet another text, complaining about her absence like some possessive, controlling stalker. She slept peacefully, finally able to get some real rest for the first time in months, and then she woke up and decided she wanted to go hiking. Because that was the kind of thing Laurel Lance did. Pass out for nearly 24 hours and then wake up and ask to go hiking._

 _She is a strange creature; this weird, unexpected, baffling phenomenon. Or, no, she was. She was. She is not here anymore. She is not here to baffle him now. She left him behind. How cruel. And right after she promised to let him go first. She probably did it just to spite him for making her promise that, too. It seems like the kind of stubborn, unreasonable thing she would do._

 _Dean tilts his head back to look up at the gray sky. It's been threatening rain all day, unseasonably cold and gloomy for April, and he's been stuck outside for most of it. Still, the cold weather is easier to deal with than the house full of people he's got. He releases a slow breath and flexes his right hand experimentally. He grimaces at the sharp, shooting pain and absently rubs at the bandage covering his bruised, split knuckles._

 _Should've known Oliver Queen would have an obnoxiously hard head._

 _He steps off the back porch and approaches Laurel's garden. Some of the flowers are starting to bloom. The daffodils are already in full bloom. She had been so excited to see those damn daffodils. What the hell is he supposed to do with this? What is he supposed to do with any of this shit? They're going to die. The flowers. All of them. They're going to wither and die without the proper care. He doesn't know the proper care. She never told him. Maybe it's fitting. It's probably just his incredibly sleep deprived brain being melodramatic and delusional, but maybe it's best they go back to the earth with her. He can even see it in his head right now._

 _Laurel, six feet under and covered in flowers._

 _Except, no. That's fucking idiotic. It's overly romantic bullshit. He's trying to make sense of something that doesn't make sense. He hasn't slept. That's all. He doesn't even know what day it is today. The last real moment, for him, was April 6th. It was a Wednesday. He remembers that. Laurel died on a Wednesday. Mary was born on a Wednesday._

 _He twists his wedding ring on his finger, staring down at the flowers. His wife is not some fairytale corpse in a glass coffin surrounded by flowers, waiting for him to wake her up. This is real life. She's locked all alone in the dark. They took her blood, drained it out of her and replaced it with something else. They slapped an obscene amount of makeup on her, did her hair, put her in a dress, and expected people to look at that dry stick in a basket and see her._

 _Laurel would have been horrified, humiliated, and pissed off by all of this. She would be so angry right now. She hadn't wanted this. She hadn't wanted any of this. Neither did he. He wanted to take her back to Big Sur. Laurel had loved it there. There was this one trail they went on that overlooked this cove with a waterfall in it. It was the same view that was on a blank, worn out postcard that she had been keeping on her fridge since long before he even met her. He still vividly remembers the look on her face when she finally got to see the view she had been waiting years to see. She had looked so happy and awed and alive. It was the first time he had seen her look so relaxed in a long time._

 _He remembers everything about the wonder in her eyes in that moment. She may have been looking at the magnificent view, but he was looking at her. He still maintains that he easily had the better view that day. That was where he had wanted to take her. He'd even had a plan. He was going to go back to that same park where the cove was and spread her ashes. He was looking at the cost of flights and rental cars, asking around to see who would be willing to look after Mary for a couple of days. That was what he wanted for her. It was what he should have fought for. He couldn't protect her from the arrow. The least he could do for her was make sure she ended up somewhere she had been at peace. She deserved to have the dignity that she was never granted in life._

 _Turns out, he can't even give her that._

 _He can blame her parents all he wants for that but the truth is, this is his fault. The blame lies nowhere but on his shoulders. Her parents were never going to give a crap about what she wanted. They just wanted to be done with it. It was his job to protect her. Which he could have. He easily could have fought them, given her what she explicitly asked for, but he didn't. He couldn't make himself do it. Cremation is final. It means she's really gone. It means she's not coming back. He's not ready for that._

 _Maybe that kind of pain and hesitance makes sense. Grief is selfish, after all, and it's nearly impossible to wade through. But maybe that doesn't matter. Regardless of whether or not his pain is understandable, he's still going to have to live with the fact that his grief failed her when she needed him._

 _The sound of the back gate opening forces his attention away from the flowers. It's Thea, stepping into the yard, head down, wiping at her eyes. He straightens when he sees her, turning away from the garden to face her. She hasn't noticed him yet, turning her back to him to shut the gate and pausing, visibly taking in a few breaths before moving away from the exit. When she turns back around, she stops short, eyes widening at the sight of him. He opens his mouth to say something to her but the words die in his throat. He wants so much to be able to say something comforting but he can't. There is no comfort here, and he's not sure what to say to someone whose brother he just pulverized._

 _He takes in the sight of her instead, attempting not to look too concerned. She's made it perfectly clear that she doesn't want anything from him right now. Not after what he did to Oliver. He can understand that. It's hard not to worry about her, though. She looks so small and sad right now, standing there, pale, hands trembling. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot, her nose is red, and she looks so incredibly young. He can vaguely recall being that young, standing waist deep in blood and misery, chest aching with loss._

 _She doesn't move for a moment, rooted firmly to the spot. She looks like she's not sure what to do with him. Her eyes flicker, ever so briefly, to the bandage around his hand, and then her eyes darken. She glowers, every bit the angry protective sister, and rips her eyes away from him. He watches her stomp past him without a word. She makes it all the way to the back porch and then she stops, body noticeably tensing as she peers into the house and spots the people milling around. ''I - I thought there wasn't supposed to be a wake.''_

 _''There wasn't.'' He has to clear his throat when he hears his raspy voice. ''Laurel's mother didn't get that memo. She invited everyone over here for coffee. Said something about being surrounded by people who loved her daughter.''_

 _Bullshit._

 _Most of the people in there were colleagues or clients or old friends from school. Hardly Laurel's nearest and dearest. Not that Dinah would even know that. She knows nothing about the people Laurel loved or the people who loved her back. She didn't even know who Charlie was, and Dean knows for a fact that Laurel mentioned her on at least one occasion._

 _Thea sighs, shoulders sagging. She moves over to the table, tossing her purse onto the surface, sinking down onto one of the chairs, and leaning forward to rest her head in her hands. Dean does his best to give her space but he can't ignore the instinct to take care of her. He knows she didn't sleep last night and he doubts she's eaten much today, if anything. He approaches her slowly, stepping up onto the porch but carefully keeping his distance. ''Have you eaten anything today?''_

 _She looks up at him, eyes blank. ''Yes.'' It's a short, sharp answer._

 _''You still mad at me?'' It's a pointless question to ask when he already knows the answer._

 _''You beat my brother to a bloody pulp,'' her unwavering voice is like steel. ''Yes, I'm still mad at you. I'm livid. You were so far past the line - ''_

 _''Then why are you here with me and not with him?'' He does his best to keep his voice from sounding too harsh but it's become increasingly difficult to be soft over the past week. It's the lack of sleep. It's the grief, the confusion, the aimlessness, the way the world is spinning around him and won't slow down. He's angry. He's so angry he can't see straight. His chest feels tight with it every minute of every day. A week ago, he had a wife. Mary had a mother. The world had the Black Canary. More importantly, they had Laurel Lance. She was right here. What do they have now? What do any of them have but a tangled mess of grief and rage and slow dying flowers?_

 _Thea stares down at the grimy table, picking at her cuticles. ''I can't.'' She sinks her teeth into her lower lip. ''I can't look at him right now.''_

 _''I really worked him over that good, huh?''_

 _She raises her eyes to him and he tries to determine whether the brief flicker of disgust is meant for him or Oliver. She frowns, staring at him intently until he sighs heavily and rolls his eyes._

 _''All right,'' he says, pulling out a chair and sitting on the other side of the table from her. ''Not in the mood for jokes right now. Got it.''_

 _''Do you know how many pieces of garbage Laurel put away?'' She asks calmly. She doesn't wait for him to answer her unexpected question. ''Too many to count. There was this one serial rapist who was targeting drunk young girls who came out of this one nightclub downtown. She went after him hard because all of his victims fit my general description.''_

 _''I remember that.''_

 _''His conviction could be overturned,'' she tells him. ''On a technicality. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. My brother did that. He did that at her funeral.'' She shakes her head. She sounds so betrayed and hurt, like she never thought her precious brother could do something so irresponsible and cruel._

 _He's never going to understand that. Oliver's friends and family treat him like he's some kind of messiah. All these seemingly intelligent people look at him in his ridiculous get up with his hollow speeches and they fold. They willingly turn a blind eye to the damage he causes, the way he treats people, the attacks on this city that he has caused. It's completely insane. It's straight up cult like behavior. Even Laurel wasn't immune to it. He likes to think she was a little less submissive sometimes and he knows she was willing to go behind Oliver's back to do what was right, perfectly comfortable calling him out for being a dick, but all it got her was a label of ''the difficult, overemotional one.'' But even she got suckered into being one of Green Arrow's human action figures. Just some expendable, posable doll he could order around. That's the way it is here._

 _At the end of the day, this is Oliver Queen's world they're living in now, and he is going to get every single one of those people killed._

 _Dean should have realized that sooner. They should have run from this city after Tommy died like the discussed and never looked back._

 _''I know Ollie's made a lot of mistakes,'' Thea says cautiously. ''But I never thought he would do something like that. He didn't even ask permission. He just...'' She trails off and never finishes her sentence. She fidgets uncomfortably in her seat and picks at her nail polish. ''I can't look at him,'' she repeats. ''Not right now.''_

 _He clenches his jaw. He tries not to unleash his bitterness on her. He fails. ''You didn't see that coming?'' It tears out of him viciously. ''This is all he's ever done, Thea. Destroying her was his number one hobby.''_

 _''He was grieving,'' she states strongly. ''He was upset. He wasn't thinking clearly.''_

 _Dean laughs at her. He doesn't mean to but this burst of cruel laughter just pours out of him. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. ''I'm sure,'' he mocks. ''He must be so pissed he's lost his best punching bag.''_

 _''So, what, Dean? What's your plan here?'' She rises to her feet so she can tower over him, twisting her own sneer onto her lips. She puts her hands on her hips, staring down at him, daring him to challenge her. ''You want to believe he was her villain so you've decided you're going to be his? You think that's what she would have wanted?''_

 _There's a fire in her eyes that reminds him so much of Laurel that his throat aches at the sight of it. On any other day, that would be enough to make him stand down. Today is not any other day. He has less than zero fucks to give about anything right now. ''She's dead,'' he says coldly. ''She doesn't get a say anymore.''_

 _She recoils in shock, eyes widening._

 _''You get what you give in life, Thea,'' he says hollowly._

 _She scoffs, rolling her eyes. ''You've lost it,'' she says, and he gets the impression that they're both supposed to be pretending that her voice isn't shaking._

 _He shrugs. ''You're just getting that?''_

 _''You could have killed him.''_

 _''You think I want him dead?'' He looks up at her, tilting his head to the side. ''I don't want him dead. Death would be a mercy. I'm not willing to give him that.''_

 _''Oh my god,'' she groans, exasperated. ''It wasn't his fault, Dean.''_

 _''Of course it was his fault!'' His booming voice startles her and when he sees her flinch and back away from him, he softens._

 _''Look,'' she starts, after a tense and uncomfortable moment. ''You want someone to blame. I get it. So do I. But Oliver - ''_

 _''Oliver,'' he hisses the name out through his teeth, ''should have been watching her back.''_

 _''I should have been watching her back!'' She throws her arms out helplessly. ''I was her partner! Me! Not Oliver. Me. She saved my life all the time. She had my back and she expected me to have hers. She always looked after me,'' her voice breaks and she audibly draws in a rattling breath. ''In every part of my life, she took care of me. And when it really counted, when she needed me, I couldn't do the same. Be angry with me,'' she begs. ''Blame me.''_

 _Doesn't she think he's tried? He can't. He has tried to be angry with her the way he's angry with the rest of them because she was there too. She was in that prison. She was on that team. But he can't. He looks at her, this suffering young kid who has lost everything the same way he has, and he can't. She and Mary are the only things he has left of Laurel. She loved her girls so much. She would have done anything for them. ''No,'' he says, and wants so desperately for that to be the end of it._

 _She looks disappointed. He doesn't think she even realizes there are tears slipping down her ashen cheeks. ''Why?'' She croaks out. When he stands slowly and tries to reach out for her, she swats him away from her angrily. ''No! No, I'm not your daughter! I'm not Mary! You can't coddle me or - or protect me from this. I... I should have - '' She stops, cutting herself off abruptly, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. ''Well, what about you, huh? You're her husband. You two were a team.''_

 _He ignores the pang in his chest, the nausea swirling around in his gut, the throbbing headache forming behind his right eye. He squares his shoulders and doesn't bother to defend himself. There is no defense. ''I know.''_

 _''You're supposed to be, like, this ultra badass action hero, aren't you?'' She sniffles, pointing a shaking but accusatory finger at him. ''You've got all these big guns and sharp knives and brass knuckles but what good are they sitting in the trunk of your stupid car collecting dust while your wife gets an arrow to the lung?'' She shakes her head. ''You saved the world. I know, I read those stupid books. You saved the world but you couldn't save her? So what was the point? What was the point of any of it?'' She wipes at her eyes again because the tears just keep coming and coming, running down her cheeks in rivulets._

 _He wants to be able to give her something. A hug or a tissue or some words that would comfort her, but he doesn't have any of those things. He has nothing to offer her._

 _''What good are you?'' She asks, finishing off her tirade with a wobbly question that he has never been able to answer._

 _He goes along with it, shaking his head apologetically and saying, patiently, ''No good.'' He takes a step closer to her and she backs away from him, nearly toppling off the porch. ''I failed her too,'' he agrees. ''I know that. I'm sorry.''_

 _It doesn't help. It doesn't make her feel better. She avoids looking at him so he won't see the regret in her eyes. He keeps his mouth shut and doesn't patronize her by tossing her some platitude that won't mean anything. She doesn't apologize and neither does he, but the silence stretches out in the space between. The minutes tick by, putting a good distance between them and the nastiness. He watches her, worried but also selfishly grateful for the distraction from his own grief. He's better at dealing with other people's pain._

 _Her eyes look dull and sore when she eventually looks back at him. ''Were you at the funeral home this morning?'' She asks. ''I - I didn't see you there. Did you get a chance to see her?''_

 _He's not sure how to answer that question. He was at the funeral home. He saw a body. He didn't see Laurel. ''I was there,'' he answers shortly. ''I saw. I left.'' He takes a single cautious step in her direction and when she doesn't move away, he gently guides her back over to the chairs._

 _She doesn't respond to anything he's said, collapsing tiredly back into her chair. He can tell by the look in her eyes that there's something else she wants to say. He pulls a chair over to her and sits down across from her. He doesn't rush her or pressure her to talk. He just sits there, waiting patiently for her to be ready. He's not sure if she's going to yell at him again or start crying but whatever it is, he waits. He figures it's what Laurel would do here and Thea really needs Laurel right now. He can't be Laurel, no one can, but he can try._

 _''I picked out her outfit,'' she says, finally._

 _He tightens his lips into a thin line. He knew that. Figured it out when he walked into the bedroom and found Thea sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching two dresses and staring blankly at the wall. He'd had to say her name twice just to get her attention. ''It was a nice dress,'' he says. ''Hey.'' He leans in to place a hand on her arm. ''You did good, Thea. You did really good.''_

 _She doesn't look like she believes him. ''But it wasn't what she would have wanted, was it? Nothing that happened today was what she would have wanted.'' When he can't answer that, she ducks her head, sniffling again. ''There should have been more flowers. She loved flowers.'' She grabs her purse off the table and rummages around in it until she produces a tissue. She dabs at her eyes, smearing her mascara, but mostly she uses it to keep her hands busy. He watches her bunch it up in her fists and tear at it until it's nothing more than mulch. ''Why...'' She presses her lips together, brows furrowing. ''Why did she, um...'' She squeezes her eyes shut and releases a shaky breath. ''Never mind.''_

 _''Thea.''_

 _She reluctantly opens her eyes to look at him. ''Why did she look like that?''_

 _He's not sure what question he had been expecting her to ask but it sure as hell wasn't that one. He's not sure why. It's a perfectly understandable question. ''Thea - ''_

 _''I didn't see my mom,'' she says softly. ''I picked out her dress but I didn't - I couldn't...'' She reaches a hand up to rub at the back of her neck. ''I didn't see Tommy either. I don't know why I had to see Laurel.'' She licks her lips, looking lost. ''But the funeral director - He asked me if I wanted a minute with her so I - I went in there. I guess I just wanted an image of her in my head that wasn't her in the morgue. 'Cause she looked so wrong there, Dean. You know? It wasn't her face at all. And I thought she would look better. I thought they were supposed to make her look better. Or peaceful. Like she was sleeping. But I went in there...'' Her whole face scrunches up and then crumples in pain and grief. ''And it wasn't better. Her hands were so cold. She didn't look like her at all.''_

 _He watches her make a half-hearted attempt to press her lips together to stifle the cries, but the sobs escape. He's never seen her like this before. She's always fought so hard to stay composed. Even today at the funeral. She cried but she did it quietly and calmly, keeping it to herself so no one would notice. He's never seen her collapse into herself like this, her entire body wracked with gulping, heaving sobs._

 _''I wanted her to look like her,'' she whimpers. She won't look at him, staring down at her hands. ''I just wanted...something. Why didn't she - Why did she look so wrong?''_

 _He gives up on keeping his distance. She can be mad at him all she wants but he can't just not try to comfort her. He knows Thea isn't his child or his sister or his blood but she's family all the same. If this were Mary, he'd want someone to help her. He slips off his chair to kneel in front of her, reaching out to take her hands. ''Thea,'' he sighs. ''Kiddo, look at me.'' He squeezes her hands gently. Reluctantly, she lifts her eyes to him. ''It wasn't her,'' he says firmly. ''It was a shell. It wasn't her. Everything Laurel is gone. It's just - There's just a body now. It's not her. It's flesh and blood and embalming fluid. I'm sorry,'' he adds on when she blanches at the blunt description. ''I know that's blunt but I need you to understand me, okay? It wasn't Laurel. Laurel was never scary to look at. Do you remember that? Do you remember her?'' She nods, and he gives her the best encouraging smile he can muster up. ''Good. Then keep remembering that. Forget about today. Forget about the morgue. Forget about all of that bullshit. Remember her before that.''_

 _''I'm trying,'' she says, defiant. ''I swear I am. But I don't want to remember her. I want her to be here. I don't care if that sounds childish - ''_

 _''It doesn't sound childish.''_

 _'' - I want her to be right here with us.''_

 _''I know. So do I.''_

 _''I don't know why I - '' She blinks, a few more tears falling down her cheeks. ''I've seen dead bodies before.''_

 _So has he. Piles of them. Pale and gray, rotting and bloated, bleeding and full of gore, spread out and split open on morgue tables. It was his life for a long time. It was gruesome and disgusting and a frighteningly normal thing for him. But none of that compares to Sam's body on that mattress in Cold Oak. It doesn't compare to his dad or Bobby or Cas or any of the other people he has loved and lost._

 _A stranger on a table is something he can compartmentalize. He doesn't take it home with him. His wife lying broken and lifeless on a hospital bed is not something he can let go of. The image of her sightless and silenced and vacant has been tattooed on the insides of his eyelids. Her hospital gown was ripped and pushed aside so they could use the defibrillator on her, her eyes were open and unseeing, her mouth open from when they tried to give her oxygen, and she was so eerily still. And he watched it happen. He watched her go from his Laurel with that familiar unflinching sweetness in her eyes to some empty stranger on a bed, face slack and unrecognizable. He watched her leave._

 _That's not something you can get away from. There's nowhere to run. He knows Laurel in every way there is to know a person. Including the way she looks in death. He'll remember that for the rest of his life. He didn't sign up for that, but here he is. He's been here before. He had four years with his mom. Almost seven with Laurel. Eventually, over time, he'll get to the point where he remembers Laurel's death better than he remembers her life. Just like with his mother. How is he supposed to live with that? No one will answer that question for him._

 _How is he supposed to help Thea, to help Mary, to answer their questions, when he doesn't understand any of this himself? Yes, he understands death. He's just never been able to get the hang of life after it._

 _''It's different when it's someone you care about,'' is all he can say. It sounds like such a weak and feeble explanation. Beyond an understatement._

 _''I just never thought it would be her,'' Thea confesses. ''It's Laurel. She was always here. She was supposed to always be here.''_

 _''That was the plan,'' he agrees._

 _''It was her birthday the other day,'' she says hesitantly. ''I should have been getting ready for a party. Instead I was planning her funeral. How messed up is that? ...I can't stop thinking about that.'' She looks down at his hands on her hands, but doesn't move to tug her hands away from him. ''It's not fair.''_

 _''No,'' he says. ''No, it's not. None of this is fair.'' He looks at her closely. Notes the hopeless grief and endless confusion in her watery eyes. Her red nose and the way her lips wobble. Thea may not be a child but she is still too young for this. He thinks of Laurel and what she would do in this situation. How would she have made it better? How would she fix this? He doesn't know the answer to that question and she's not here to answer it for him._

 _That might be the saddest part of this whole mess. Mary and Thea no longer have Laurel to turn to. She's not there to answer their questions, to comfort them when they're sad, to make it all better. And what exactly does Dean have left to give them? Not a whole hell of a lot. ''Hey.'' He stands, pulling her to his feet along with him. ''Come here.'' He wraps his arms around her in a hug. He expects her to resist and remind him that she's still pissed at him but she doesn't._

 _She folds into the embrace and hugs him back tightly. ''I'm sorry,'' she mumbles into his shoulder, voice muffled and sheepish. ''I didn't mean to unload on you. I know it's the last thing you need to - ''_

 _''I can handle it,'' he assures her. ''Unload on me all you want.''_

 _She is the first one to pull away from the hug, albeit somewhat reluctantly. She offers him a shaky smile but doesn't say anything._

 _He glances over his shoulder, peering inside the house. ''Listen, maybe you should head inside. Hydrate. Eat something.''_

 _''Uh, yeah, maybe in a few minutes,'' she says unconvincingly. ''There's a lot of people in there and I don't really want to - ''_

 _The sliding glass door opens behind them, abruptly cutting her sentence off. He turns around, eyes finding Claire. She's standing in the doorway, tugging at her black dress. She clamps her mouth shut tight when she catches sight of Thea, eyes skittering to Dean in concern. She recovers, shooting them both an uncertain wave. ''Don't mean to interrupt,'' she says, looking back at him, ''but I thought I'd let you know that Mary's, like, pulling a Greta Garbo in the kitchen. As in she literally threw herself down on the floor and declared she wanted to be left alone.''_

 _Yep, that's Mary._

 _''Sounds about right,'' he says. ''She can be a little dramatic sometimes. No idea where she got that from.''_

 _''Yes,'' Claire says dryly, though her voice is lacking most of her trademark sarcasm. ''It's a true mystery.''_

 _His lips tip up into a half smile but he elects not to say anything. He checks his watch, biting back an expletive when he sees the time. No shit she's being dramatic. It's way past her naptime._

 _''Anyway,'' Claire keeps going. ''Jody's with her but we're barreling towards a full on meltdown here and she...'' She stops suddenly, averting her gaze. ''She's asking questions about her mom that we're not sure how you want answered.''_

 _He's not sure how he wants them answered either. He never thought he would need to know how. ''Right, uh,'' he clears his throat. ''Can you tell her I'll be right there?''_

 _''Will do,'' Claire sends him a mock salute and hurriedly ducks back into the house._

 _He turns back to Thea, eyeing her carefully. ''All right, well, I've gotta go deal with tiny Garbo in there. Promise me you'll eat something.''_

 _''Promise. Oh! Actually, wait. Before I forget.'' She grabs her purse off the table to dig through it, shuffling items around until she can pull something small out. She grabs his hand and carefully drops two familiar objects into his open pam. His heart stutters in his chest as he looks down at the two seemingly harmless accessories._

 _Laurel's wedding rings._

 _The entire reason he had gone to that funeral home in the first place was to get her rings because her parents kept forgetting to bring them to him. These little things have caused a lot of trouble. They've been passed from person to person since the hospital, always just a little bit out of his reach. He'd wanted the rings. More than anything else, he wants the rings he gave her. But he's been so busy trying to get her back, trying to pretend none of this is permanent, he's been so busy being angry that giving her what she wanted in death fell by the wayside. He went to the funeral home to get them, to do at least one thing right, and he had been so pathetically distracted by the way she looked in that casket, like some sort of disturbing wax figurine. The screaming match he'd gotten into with her mother hadn't helped either._

 _''I took them off her,'' Thea whispers shakily. ''I know you wanted them for Mary.'' Gently, she closes his fist around the rings._

 _Okay, so. He knows that whatever is left of him is not enough to make up for Laurel's absence. Nothing can make up for the fact that she's not here anymore, that she will never be here again. But he's going to give her girls all he's got anyway. If he doesn't, Laurel will come back and haunt his ass. There is no way to escape the hollow cavernous grief, the ache of the empty spot where she used to be. He can't fill the space. He can't take the pain or the anger away. He can't lift the crushing weight off. He can't even sleep. But Mary and Thea and even Sara, all the loves of Laurel's life, have been left behind here, and he knows how it feels to be left behind. It's fucking agonizing._

 _It's not a hard decision to offer himself up to them, hungry heart, hollow bones, fury and all. It's instinct at this point. It's what he does. It's what Laurel would have done. Maybe if he does it right, the rage will stop burning him alive from the inside. Maybe he'll be able to avoid completely losing his sanity._

 _He clings tightly to the rings in his hand. Somehow, he twists his lips into something partially resembling a smile. ''Thank you, Thea.''_

 _She gives him a weak smile and pats his arm gently. ''Keep them safe, okay?''_

 _''Always,'' he promises. Tentatively, he steps back into her space and leans down to press a kiss to her forehead._

 _It's a promise he intends to keep._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

''This doesn't happen,'' says Felicity Smoak.

It's roughly the umpteenth time she's said that in the past twenty minutes and the sound of her panicked voice is starting to grate on him. He's not going to say that because he's not a total jerk but he's getting a headache. You'd think she would be handling this better given that technically she is standing in a room that is mostly full of reanimated corpses.

Dean shoves down a huff and leans back in his chair to roll his eyes at the ceiling of Green Arrow's arrogantly flashy lair. Being around these people is not good for his sobriety. Or his blood pressure. That might sound overly grouchy but it's also the truth. It's not like he hates them. That would be a waste. He just doesn't like or trust them. He did trust them at one point. He trusted them to watch Laurel's back and get her home to Mary every night. Look how well that turned out. It's not like they like or trust him either. He's been here for an hour and all he's done is help his wife through a seizure, have a private conversation with his sister-in-law, and sit by Laurel's side until she passed out again. Seems harmless, right? Wrong, apparently. So far, since he's been here, he's been treated like a naughty child, looked at like he's too stupid to understand anything they're saying to him, and now they seem to be pretending he's not here.

In all fairness, their dislike and distrust of him is not entirely unwarranted. He did, after all, manipulate them into leading him straight to Darhk so he could torture and kill the guy against their orders on what they've deemed their territory.

Also, he pummeled their leader.

It's possible those things might have crossed some lines. He wouldn't have had to do any of that if this team had actually managed to do their jobs but maybe that's asking too much. Either way, he's not allowed to bring that up anymore. Apparently constantly pointing out how useless they are makes him a ''recurring antagonist'' and gets his security clearance to this bunker revoked. Personally, he thinks that's way overdramatic but he's okay with being their villain if that's what they want him to be. That's fine. They just need to shove their condemnation for today. This isn't about him right now. This is about Laurel.

''Of course it happens, Felicity,'' Sara's voice says tightly, from off to the side. ''It keeps happening. Death is just an illusion at this point.''

Dean swallows down a few snide comments. _Tell that to Tommy_ , he doesn't say. Death sure didn't feel like a fucking illusion while he was knee deep in it; dying over and over again for years on end, wading through grief for everyone he's ever touched, stuck in a perpetual state of losing and failing and burning. He scrubs a hand over his face and doesn't say a word. His goal is to keep his mouth shut until Sam and Cas get here. He's given them the condensed version of the events of last night but what's best for everyone is for him to not engage. They can talk amongst themselves and ignore his existence for all he cares. He'd rather be at Story Time. He would much rather be at a bar, to be honest.

''She should be at a hospital,'' Oliver says again. He keeps his voice quiet, palms flat against the table as he leans in to speak to his team. He also makes sure to throw a disapproving glance in Dean's direction, like he's checking to make sure that he's listening just so he can hear him tear him down. ''We don't know what's wrong with her,'' he insists. ''She needs medical attention. He should have taken her the minute she showed up. Look at her.''

''Right,'' Sara says tiredly. ''Except, Ollie, how is that an option? You are way smarter than this.''

''Okay,'' Felicity pipes up. She takes in a few breaths and then explodes. ''Is anyone else wondering what the hell?!'' She emphasizes her shriek by throwing her hands out. ''Yes, okay, this is a thing that happens to us. It's a disturbingly regular occurrence. I'll give you that. But usually there's an explanation. There's no explanation for this! None! And you!'' She turns to her left, pointing a slightly shaky finger at John. ''Why are you so calm about this?''

He raises an eyebrow. ''Who says I'm calm?'' He asks, calmly.

''Your general demeanor?'' She suggests. ''Your lack of an expression? Take your pick!''

''You _have_ been oddly silent,'' Oliver agrees, sinking into a chair.

John pauses, turning in his seat to look over his shoulder at Laurel. He keeps his eyes on her, frown pulling down the corners of his mouth, and then he turns back. He stares down at the table and then slowly lifts his eyes, not to look at Oliver or Felicity or Sara but to look straight at Dean. ''The injuries to her hands,'' he starts. ''What are they from?''

Dean releases a bitter laugh, squashing down the nagging feeling of nausea that curls into him when he gets these flashes of Laurel, waking up scared and alone in the cold. ''What do you think they're from?''

''I don't know,'' is the level responds he gets. It's a lie. The look on John's face tells him he knows exactly how she got them. He just wants to be proven wrong. ''That's why I'm asking you.''

Dean weighs his options. Would she want them to know, is the biggest question. Laurel doesn't like pity. It's not something she ever wants directed at her. If they know, they'll pity her. That's unavoidable. But they need to know. ''Laurel came back to life,'' he tells them. ''Right where we left her.''

He does, admittedly, get a sick sort of satisfaction watching the horror and disgust slowly creep across their faces. Good. They should be horrified. They should be disgusted and sad and guilty. They need to feel that. He hopes they see it in their heads the way he does. Laurel, all alone in the dark, terrified and gasping for breath, clawing and fighting her way topside. They deserve to be haunted by that because this is what they did to her. This is what their cause did to her. This guilt is important for them to bear. Maybe if they have to carry this, they'll fix themselves. They'll be better. They'll learn from their mistakes. They'll start functioning like a team who can actually help this city instead of one that's just speeding up the rot. Then again, maybe that's wishful thinking. Maybe he just needs one good thing to come from this.

''She - She...'' Sara trails off, whipping her head around to stare at Laurel. She looks like she's going to start sobbing. ''You're saying she - In her grave? Her casket?''

''And she got out by herself?'' John questions, suspicious. ''...How?''

Dean says, as if it is simple, ''Adrenaline, most likely.''

''That doesn't make any - ''

''You might not want to pull on that thread, John. None of this makes sense,'' he says sharply. ''She was also fucking embalmed. In case any of you have forgotten. But here she is. She's breathing. She bled. She crawled out of her grave. That's what happened. This is the _supernatural_. It's not about logic. Not the logic you've been taught anyway. It's about magic.''

''People don't climb out of the ground, Dean,'' Oliver says hotly. ''They just don't.''

Ha! Right. Okay then.

Instead of getting snarky, Dean just lifts a shoulder in an absentminded half shrug. ''I did.''

Everyone stares at him. Sara is the only one who doesn't look surprised.

Felicity is the one who breaks the silence with a short, ''I'm sorry but - what now?''

John asks, ''Who _are_ you exactly?''

Dean plasters on a perfectly pleasant smile. ''Laurel's husband.''

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he fishes it out, glancing at the screen quickly. He locks eyes with Sara briefly and she nods and waves him away. Oliver looks mildly irritated that Dean seems to be deferring to Sara like she's the leader of this team. That is definitely one of the reasons Dean is doing it. He rises to his feet, distancing himself from them without a word, letting them stew in their own shock and disbelief. He gives the text from Sam - _Just finishing up here. Should be on our way to you in a few_ \- a quick look before firing off a reply of, _anything?_

Behind him, he hears Felicity say, ''I'm going to say something and everybody's going to get mad at me but it needs to be said: How can we be sure this is really her? Are we honestly going to take _Dean's_ word for it?''

Rude.

But valid.

''Last I checked,'' she goes on, ''he's not the most stable guy.''

She has a fair point there. He should probably let that one go. He does not. ''Thanks so much for keeping your voice down,'' he calls over his shoulder. ''You know, so that the crazy guy over here doesn't hear you.''

Felicity mutters an unapologetic, ''Oops.''

He thinks he deserves a medal for not rolling his eyes. His phone buzzes again and he drifts further away from the simmering tensions.

 **Sam**  
 **1:42**  
 _Damage is isolated to one half of the cemetery. About half a mile's worth maybe. Not sure._

Well, that's something at least. He replies, _how bad is the damage_

Sam takes way too long to answer for the answer to that question to be comforting.

 **1:45**  
 _Bad_

 **1:46**  
 _Cas says Bea and Richard's graves are untouched._

Dean lets out a breath. He types out a reply. Then deletes it. Then types it out again. He pauses, and then hits send. _what about tommy?_

This time, the length of the pause before Sam answers is so long it's uncomfortable. Dean knows what's coming before he even reads the text.

 **1:49**  
 _His grave was in the blast radius. I'm sorry._

''Son of a bitch.'' He rubs at his tired eyes and looks over at Laurel, lying prone on the cot. She is not going to take this well. She felt bad enough for accidentally destroying the graves of strangers. If she knows she sent Tommy's monument crumbling, she will never forgive herself. He gnaws on his lower lip, and makes a decision. _i'll tell thea_ , he texts. _get her to replace the stone asap. laurel can never know._

 **1:52**  
 _Got it._

 **Dean**  
 **1:53**  
 _anything else?_

 **Sam**  
 **1:55**  
 _Yes_

 **Dean**  
 **1:57**  
 _?_

 **Sam**  
 **2:00**  
 _I'll let you know when we get there. We should talk in person._

''Ugh,'' Dean groans. ''Great. That bodes well.'' This day is already giving him a migraine and it's not even half over. Adamantly avoiding going back to the others, he sends Thea a text asking how Mary's doing. Thea responds with an emoji of a stop sign and an emoji of a helicopter. He can't usually decipher her weird emoji codes but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to crack that one. He scrunches his nose up and replies, _im not helicoptering._

Thea sends him a thumbs up. It's surprisingly snarky for an innocent little animated picture on a phone. She has a gift. She follows it up with a picture of Mary, sitting on the ground in the toy aisle of the department store, clutching a Flash action figure and giggling at the book open in her lap. She doesn't look at all traumatized by any of the things that have happened today. She looks like she's having a pretty good day, actually. At least one member of this family seems to be at peace with this whole thing. She also looks like she's going to be coming home with some new toys. There might be a possibility that she's spoiled. He and Laurel have both been stubborn about admitting that in the past but there is a chance that they've gone overboard with their ''we're going to give her everything we never had'' motto. That's been hard to ignore this past week. She was literally given every single thing she asked for. Including, as it would appear, her mother.

...Eh.

He's thinking that's behavior to correct after they deal with one of the Nine Lives Lances over there.

For today, he takes in the sight of her, happy and full of laughter. You can't get this kind of relaxation from alcohol. He needs to remember that more often. He saves the picture to his phone because he's come to terms with being a sentimental fool, reluctantly exits out of the picture, and pulls up Sam's name. He hesitates over the call button for half a second and then another text comes through before he has a chance to make the call.

 **2:08**  
 _How's it going there?_

Right on cue, there's another uproar from the peanut gallery as Sara leaps to her feet, nearly knocking her chair over. ''What the fuck?!'' She screeches, and Dean whirls around just in time to fee Felicity physically recoil in shock. ''No!''

''Whoa, whoa, whoa. Sara, stop it,'' Oliver's voice is harsh and demanding. ''Calm down.'' When he tries to put a hand on her shoulder to physically pull her back, Sara turns one of her withering glares on him and nearly decks him.

''Of course you would defend that shitty idea,'' she snarls. ''You've always been an ableist prick to her.''

'' _Hey!_ That is not - ''

''It was just a suggestion,'' Felicity cuts in hotly. ''If we want to be sure it's really her - ''

''You are not offering my alcoholic sister a glass of wine to test her! What is _wrong_ with you?! That's cruel. She punched her way out of her own grave and you want to slap her in the face with a relapse?!''

''Can't even pretend to be surprised by that one,'' Dean mutters.

''Sara,'' Oliver warns. ''Watch your tone.''

''Excuse me?''

''She's trying to help.''

''How in the hell is that helpful?''

Dean sighs and shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling briefly. _im surrounded by idiots_ , he texts. He doesn't mention the seizure. He doesn't mention his fight with Sara or the fact that he got punched in the face. He just doesn't. _how do u think its going?_

Sam's response to that is immediate and quick: _*You_

Dean considers his response to that one and then, after about a minute of careful deliberation, sends Sam two lipstick kiss emojis.

 **2:11**  
 _What does that even mean_

 **Dean**  
 **2:12**  
 _its what laurel sends when she wants to passive aggressively end a line of questioning._

No answer.

 **2:15**  
 _dude i can hear the judgment from here_

There's a pause, and then Sam sends him two lipstick kiss emojis.

Dean actually manages a quiet but genuine chuckle. ''Walked right into that one.'' He sends one last look over at the bickering team and then decides - fuck that. He bites his tongue at the sound of an insult thrown vaguely in his direction and walks away, leaving them to their mess as he makes his way over to Laurel. The only reason he's down here putting up with the superfriends over there is because of her. She loves these people. She believes they love her back. He's not going to take that away from her. His loyalty lies with her. Not with them. They've made it perfectly clear that they don't want his loyalty anyway.

Even before Darhk, before April 6th, none of them had a favorable opinion of him. He was just their colleague's husband. The guy they pretended they didn't think they were above. They thought of him as some hapless, harried stay at home dad. Someone they'd trust if they were looking for opinions on juice boxes or diapers but not someone they'd ever think to go to in case of an emergency. Being viewed as a helpless civilian is one thing. Being viewed as a dangerously unstable psychopath is another.

For the record, he still maintains that everyone completely overreacted when he did what he did to Darhk. Yes, okay, maybe it was overkill. Maybe he didn't need to carve him up like a pumpkin. Maybe doing it on Mother's Day was too theatrical. Maybe letting Hell back into his head for that night was something he should have avoided. But what was the other option? Lock him up? They tried that. They had the bastard. They had him behind bars. Look what happened. Laurel was slaughtered because they refused to take the damn shot when they had the chance. These so called heroes think they can get away with just bringing their villains in and locking them up. Well, it doesn't always work that way. Nothing stays locked away forever. No, Darhk needed to be taken out. He needed to be cut down the way he cut Laurel down.

If that makes him a psychopath then so be it.

He'll be their villain, their enforcer, their wild card, their crazed killer. Sometimes bad guys just need killing. He made peace with that a long time ago. You have to know what world you're living in. He knows exactly what world he's in. Maybe they don't.

He takes a seat next to Laurel, looks at her pale and drawn face, and tries not to make comparisons to that night in April. It's not the same. It's not. She was a mess that night, so out of it and sick with guilt, hurting and scared, so doped up that she could barely remember her own name. This isn't the same thing. There's color in her cheeks right now. She's lying there, one hand thrown over her abdomen, head turned to the left slightly. It's jarring to see her so still and the odd lighting of this absurd cave is giving her a sickly glow but he's trying to take comfort in the fact that at least she's finally getting some real rest. She needs it. Her poor body must be so worn out.

He sends Sam one last quick text - _did you do what i asked_ \- and then leans forward and looks at her. For the first time since all of this started, he takes a minute to just look at her.

Laurel Lance: alive and well.

Okay, so he doesn't know what's happening.

It's frustrating to be so far in the dark. It stings to know that his wife is basically a case at this point. And he knows this isn't a miracle. Except it kind of is. She's alive. She's here with him, with Mary, with Thea and Sara. She's here. She's _home_. Whatever is happening, she is still here right now. It's impossible not to be over the moon about that. He's missed her. He has missed her every hour of every day.

And it _is_ her. It has to be. Regardless of what Felicity Smoak says, this is Laurel. She's not a spirit, she's not possessed, not a Leviathan, or a zombie. There's no handprint on her skin, no new marks on her skin, no runes or mysterious tattoos or symbols. She's not feral so he knows it's not some Lazarus Pit crap. He hasn't completely ruled out the possibility that she's a doppelganger from another earth trying to play an incredibly convincing long con, but he seriously doubts that's the case. He's willing to admit that there's a chance someone has made a crossroads deal but nobody's come forward yet. That's just a guess. It's not the answer.

Felicity was right about one thing. This has happened before but there is always an explanation. There is no clear cut explanation for this. Just questions, questions, and more questions. There are too many what ifs. What if she's not really her? What if she can't recover from this? What if this brand new collar-less, powerful Canary Cry corrupts her and turns her into Siren? What if she can't stay? What if this is some cruel trick someone is playing on them and it's not permanent? He can't watch her die again. Mary cannot lose her mother again.

His phone buzzes in his pocket once more and he reluctantly takes his eyes off of her, sitting back to read the text from Sam.

 **2:25**  
 _Casket's been destroyed. No body inside. It's her._

Dean relaxes back against his chair, shoulders slumping in relief as he clutches his phone numbly. It's a strange thing to be relieved about. He's aware of that. This means she really did have to go through the horror of digging herself out. He hates that. He hates that she's hurting, that she had to struggle and bleed the way he did, that he couldn't protect her from that. It's just good to have the confirmation that nobody's trying to pull a fast one on him.

Because, well, let's face it: this is exactly the kind of ridiculously elaborate and cruel stunt that Dinah would pull to get back at him for what happened over the summer. Not even that. This is the kind of thing she would do for _fun_. She was a con woman before she was a leather clad villainess. They've been on relatively good terms since then but there's no doubt that she's the type to hold a grudge and he is not going to trust that she's still in lock up until he can see for himself.

Even so, the absence of a body in the casket does support the theory - and his gut feeling - that this is her. This may be something Dinah would do but it's hard to say if he would legitimately fall for it. She can soften her voice, her eyes, injure herself to make it look like she's pulled a grave escape, play the wide eyed amnesiac trauma victim to avoid any questions. She can do her research, copy Laurel's tattoos, her hair and makeup, change her body language to fit Laurel's, but she can never really be her. He's learned that. It's a surface value resemblance at best. Even then, Dinah doesn't look that much like Laurel if you're looking hard enough. She's just some funhouse mirror. Her body isn't the home he knows. He tried to make it one, and she tried to lie, but it didn't work. There is no part of her that is Laurel. He thinks he could scour every earth, find every version of Dinah Laurel Lance there is, and none of them would fit right. None of them would be home. None of them would truly be her. There's one. There's only one.

He doesn't answer the text, slipping the phone away and bringing his eyes back to her sleeping form. He has to believe that if this was some screwed up trick, he would know. Of all people, he would know.

John, shoulders tense, eyes dark, looking frustrated with having to deal with other people's arguments, comes thundering into the space on Laurel's other side. ''I'm just going to take the IV out,'' he says, without even sparing a glance at Dean.

Dean doesn't bother to respond. He sends a sidelong glance back at the glaringly fragmented Team Arrow. You know... Even from a biased perspective like his, he has to admit this team has been stranger than usual lately. He watches the news, he reads the paper. They've been off. They've been getting less results than ever. He thinks about keeping his mouth shut. Ultimately, he doesn't. ''Have you noticed your island of misfit toys seems to be sinking?''

Unexpectedly, John doesn't argue. Doesn't even give Dean a dirty look. ''Trust me,'' he says, ''I'm aware. We used to be better than this.''

''Is it sympathy you're looking for?'' That earns him a glare. He's run out of fucks to give so he just shrugs and responds easily, ''Glory days come and go. We have to learn to live in the in betweens.''

''It's not about glory,'' John says, leaning down to remove the IV from Laurel's hand with skilled precision.

She stirs at the pinch, clenching her fist. Her head turns to the side and Dean watches her face scrunch up in discomfort. A small noise of discontent pushes through her lips and both men hold their breaths, going silent. She doesn't wake, relaxing back almost as quickly as she tensed. Dean moves his hand to her wrist, rubbing his thumb over the pulse point instead of trying to hold her damaged hand.

''Maybe we're losing steam,'' John murmurs.

''Maybe you should suck it up,'' Dean says, without remorse, and earns himself another unimpressed look. ''I'm just saying. Life is tough. Deal with it.''

''You think it's that easy?''

''What other choice is there? You made the decision to fight for this city. It was a choice, John. You don't have the right to give up halfway through because you've all realized you can't stand each other.''

John laughs at that. Seems like a weird reaction to that comment. ''That's not what's happening,'' he says. ''There's been a breakdown of communication. And Oliver isn't - He's not all here.''

''Uh, has he _ever_ been all here?''

''I'm not sure I know how to answer that question anymore.'' He looks down at Laurel. ''All I know is that when Laurel...'' He trails off, eyeing Dean like he doesn't want to say this next part in front of him. ''She always seemed to be able to pull him back. He's been - ''

''What?'' Dean cuts in rudely. ''Lost without her? Boo fucking hoo. He can join the damn club.'' Is that all she was to them? Just some doe eyed chick meant to prop up Oliver's fragile ego? ''It wasn't her job to pull him back.''

''No,'' John agrees. ''It wasn't.''

He doesn't say anything else. Dean hopes that's the end of it. He brought Laurel here because it's a safe place. He brought her here so she could see her sister and her friends and so they could be informed of the ongoing situation. That's all. This was a courtesy call. He's not interested in hearing about whatever bullshit problems this team is having. He's really not interested in hearing about how Oliver is still in love with her and can't function without her. Why would he, Laurel's husband, want to hear about that? Is everything about Oliver and his feelings and whoever he wants to view as the love of his pathetic little life this week? Must be exhausting to work down here. How the hell did Laurel do this and not snap?

''You said you've been through this before,'' John says suddenly. He's staring at Dean with guarded, suspicious eyes, body tense.

Dean doesn't even flinch. ''I did say that, didn't I?''

''You were...'' John folds his arms over his chest, tilting his head to the side. ''That was the truth?''

''It was,'' is the even reply. John exhales. He looks floored. Frankly, Dean doesn't understand how anything surprises anyone anymore. John covers up his shock swiftly, hardening his gaze. ''How?''

''Shit happens.''

''That's all you're giving me?''

''Yep.''

''But you recovered.''

''I guess.''

John looks at Laurel. He looks at her for a long time. ''Do you think she can recover from this?''

Not a doubt in his mind. ''Yes.''

''You sound confident.''

''It's Laurel.'' That should be answer enough. Sometimes he forgets not everyone sees her the way he does.

''Dean.''

Ugh, great. Dean bites back a long suffering sigh at the sound of Oliver's voice approaching from behind him. He rises to his feet and turns around, reflexively positioning himself in between Laurel and Oliver. He works hard to keep his expression tightly controlled in a show of false relaxation but the half patronizing, half hurt look on Oliver's face tells him that Bargain Bin Hawkeye over there has noticed the subtle, protective shift in Dean's body language. He looks deeply offended that anyone would dare to think that Laurel would ever need protection from him. He shouldn't be so surprised. A lot of people need protection from him. He stops short, nearly causing Felicity to ram right into him. She comes to a sudden stop with a small gasp, deliberately taking two steps back when she notices how close she's gotten to Oliver.

Dean refuses to react to any of it, arching a single impatient eyebrow while he waits for Oliver to use his words like a big boy. ''Can I help you?''

Oliver wisely decides to push past it and not make a fuss. ''Are you, at any point, going to tell us your plan?''

''My plan,'' is the monotone echo.

''Dean.'' Oliver does not bite back his long suffering sigh. ''Come on.''

''Depends on what plan you're talking about,'' Dean says with a smile. ''Do you mean my life plan in general? My plans for the holidays? Well, see, Frozen on ice is coming to Central City in December and I was planning on taking Mary. What do you think of that plan?''

Oliver closes his eyes and releases a breath like he thinks Dean is the most unreasonable person on the face of this earth. ''I meant about - ''

''I know what you meant.''

''You have a plan,'' Oliver insists. ''I know you do. You're a moron,'' he states bluntly and unapologetically.

''Watch it,'' Sara mutters under her breath.

Oliver pretends not to hear her. ''But even you're not that stupid.''

''Uh, one idea,'' Felicity says, moving to stand next to Oliver, tilting her head back to glare at him. ''Would be to not insult the man with the answers.''

''You mean like calling me unstable?'' Dean asks dryly.

To her credit, she does cringe and shift guiltily on her feet. ''I - ''

''I don't have the answers,'' he interrupts, softer.

''But,'' Oliver presses, ''you do have your suspicions.''

''I need more to work with.''

John moves away from Laurel, drifting back to his team. ''How do we get you more?''

''You don't,'' is the flat response he gets.

''So we're supposed to do what exactly?'' Oliver asks. ''Nothing? Look, I've seen the supernatural before.''

''And from what I've heard,'' Sara finally pipes up, casually strolling past them to stand in front of Oliver, angling her body like she's trying to protect Dean. ''It kicked your ass. And killed my sister.'' Her voice is sharp and she pulls herself up onto her tip toes as she says it, locking eyes with him and determinedly refusing to let him look away from her, even when he flinches. ''Listen to me, Ollie. I know Dean can be an insufferable bastard - ''

''Well,'' the insufferable bastard in question mumbles, ''that seems harsh.''

'' - But he's right. I know you mean well and I know you care about her, but this isn't your world.''

For five seconds, Oliver looks like he might be at least considering backing down. The five seconds passes by quickly. ''I don't care. It's Laurel.'' He says her name like she means something to him. Like she was more than some expendable half member of his team who he never treated like an equal. ''She is a part of this team,'' he says firmly. ''We're going to have her back when she needs us. He doesn't get to control who cares about her.''

''You think that's what I'm doing?'' Dean snorts and then says, flatly, ''Get bent, Robin Hood.''

''Oh!'' Felicity takes that as her cue to physically butt into the conversation, sneaking in between Oliver and Sara to push at his chest. ''Okay, okay, Oliver.'' She throws a look over her shoulder at Dean. He offers her a condescending, mocking, shit eating grin, which is unnecessary but - hey. If they want him to be an asshole, he can do that. She barely reacts, turning back to Oliver quickly. ''I - I don't want to get yelled at again.'' At that, she sends a pointed look in Sara's direction. ''But maybe Dean's right. Maybe we should stay out of this one. I'm not saying we shouldn't support her,'' she adds in quickly when both Oliver and John look like they're about to argue. ''I don't want to, like, wash my hands of her. That's not what I'm saying. It's just, you know, maybe this,'' she ducks her head down, cringing. ''Maybe this is a family matter.''

''And we're not family?'' Oliver asks.

Felicity turns to look at Dean once more, lips sinking into her lower lip. She looks at Laurel's body behind him. There is lipstick on her teeth, bright pink against white when she raises her eyes from Laurel to Dean ever so briefly. She turns back to Oliver and says, regretfully, ''No, we're not.''

She's not wrong. They're not her family. Sara is, will always be, but the others? Not so much. Laurel isn't their blood and she didn't start this team with them. It's not the same kind of bond. Thing is, she still considers them her family. Despite everything. Despite every party, every family dinner, every meeting she wasn't invited to. Every time she was told to sit a mission out, every time she was put on desk duty, given different orders, she shrugged it off. Every time she was treated as an afterthought, she let it go. She loved these people. She'll love them again. She would have done anything for them. That's never been a mutual feeling. At least not in the same way. Laurel spent hours in the hospital after Felicity was shot. She visited at least once a day. She lost sleep. She called in sick to work. They wouldn't have done the same.

Dean knows this. He always suspected she gave more than she got but they made her so happy, gave her a place where she felt like she belonged, so he tried not to protest too much. Told himself he was just being paranoid and overprotective. It's hard to muster up any real anger at Felicity's admission. Mostly, he just feels disappointed. Completely unsurprised but disappointed nonetheless.

When this situation has settled and they have answers and everything is back to normal, maybe they should just move.

''We have no idea what kind of screwy crap is going on here,'' Felicity continues. ''And we have our own,'' she frowns helplessly, ''screwy crap to deal with. You're the Mayor now. You said you wanted our priority to be recruiting new people to the team and cleaning up the city from the inside. _You_ said that, Oliver,'' she pokes at his chest. ''I don't want my team - ''

'' _Your_ team,'' Oliver echoes dimly.

'' - Losing sight of what's important because another one of your dead ex girlfriends may or may not have come back from the dead. Again.''

Easier to summon up some rage over that one. She didn't even use her name. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean catches sight of Sara. She mouths, looking too stunned to be pissed off, ''Wow.''

There is an incredibly tense moment of silence and then -

''My name is Laurel.''

Felicity goes eerily still, and all eyes shift over to Laurel. She's slowly sitting up, wincing in discomfort, but determined. There is a second, just one second, where Dean looks at her and it's like opening that front door all over again. Briefly, he wonders how long it's going to take for this awe to wear off, and then he launches himself into action. ''Laurel.'' Both he and Sara are at her side in an instant. ''Hey, babe. Slow down, okay?'' He fits a smile on his lips and helps her swing her legs over the side of the cot.

She reaches for him blindly, curling her cold hands around his, and then she looks at him. She meets his eyes and then suddenly his heart is in his throat, trying to claw out of his mouth to get to her. The eyes that are staring at him are soft and familiar. They're no longer vacant or confused or terrified. Pained, yes. Worried, yes. But knowing. She's not a stranger anymore. This is not the barely there amnesiac startled by her own skin, an intruder in her own home. This is Laurel. She looks at him, and it's _Laurel_.

He stands straight, staring down at her dumbly. He can't think of a single thing to say to her. He just keeps staring.

For a fraction of a second, a smirk curves over her lips. ''Dean,'' she says. When she says his name this time, there is a world of recognition. ''Hi.''

He physically cannot respond to her.

''Laurel,'' Sara says. ''Laurel,'' she says once more, just to be able to say her sister's name without choking on the pain of her loss. ''How - How do you feel?''

Laurel balks at the question, swinging her gaze away from Sara. How is she supposed to answer that question anyway? She looks over Dean's shoulder, clutching his hand tighter when she catches sight of her former teammates standing there, gaping at her. She grimaces lightly and drops her gaze down to the whimsical kiddie band aids adorning her fingers. Finally, she licks her lips and releases a strangled breath of laughter. When she lifts her eyes, a familiar resolve has clicked back into place. ''I feel like I need a drink,'' she deadpans.

Dean rapidly snaps out of his trance when he hears that, a small laugh of his own pushing its way out. When she moves to slip off the cot, he loops an arm around her waist and lifts her to her feet, eliciting a tiny squeak from her. ''Sweetheart,'' he says. ''I've needed a drink for four years.''

She laughs again. It's tired but it's genuine.

No one else seems to find it funny.

''What?'' He bites out. ''We can joke about it.''

''It's called gallows humor,'' Laurel nods. She's shaky on her feet, body wiped from the seizure but she still stubbornly pushes away from him, determined to stand on her own two feet with no help from anyone. ''Also,'' she adds, looking back and forth between Sara and the rest of the team. ''Um, hi?'' She tosses them a fleeting smile. ''I'm so sorry,'' she tells them. ''About all of this. I know you all probably have better things to do with your day and I didn't mean to - ''

''Better things?'' Oliver interrupts. He sounds incredulous. ''Laurel,'' he says. ''You're alive.''

She blinks slowly. She looks at him blankly, one hand slowly moving up to rub at her throat, and then she smiles at him. It's one of those soft, sweet, unwaveringly kind smiles of hers meant to comfort. Dean knows these smiles of hers well. About half the time, they're a lie. She uses them to draw people's attention away from her trembling hands. She was so irritated when they stopped working on him. He watches her as she swallows visibly, fighting a wince, hands twitching at her sides. ''I am,'' she agrees. She doesn't move to hug them, any of them, remaining right where she is, side by side with Dean.

''Felicity doesn't think you're you,'' Sara states, inching closer to her sister and away from Oliver.

Laurel doesn't look at all concerned with that. ''That's a reasonable concern,'' she says easily. ''She should be wary. I would be too. It's only logical.''

Dean turns his head to stare down at her, mouth twitching. It takes his brain a minute to restart after that one. No one else seems to get it, blowing past what she just said without a pause. He can't help but chuckle, lips curling up into a grin so genuine it hurts his face. It's pathetic that out of everything that's happened so far, it's his wife quoting Star Trek that slams into his chest like a brick. It knocks the wind out of him.

''Okay,'' he clears his throat. There's no time for this gooey crap right now. ''Look, Felicity, I get that you're scared but I don't have the patience for this right now. Laur,'' he swings his attention to his wife. ''Imagine it's the Superbowl. The Seahawks are playing. We're throwing our annual party.''

''We throw amazing Superbowl parties,'' she states with a firm nod.

''Everything's going great. And then I tell you I'm rooting for the other team. What do you do next?''

She stares at him, perplexed. For a second. Then her nose wrinkles in complete and utter disgust and she says, ''I immediately file for divorce.''

''That's my girl,'' he declares, and sends Felicity A Look.

She rolls her eyes and throws her hands up in the air. She glares over at Oliver like she's waiting for him to do something. He's still got his eyes on Laurel.

''Well,'' says John. ''Sounds like her to me.'' He moves first, breaking away from the group to move over to Laurel. He pauses briefly before he wraps her up in a big bear hug. She laughs, carefree and happy, and throws her arms around him.

Dean is not one for these emotional reunions unless he's a part of it so when she winds up being bombarded with hugs, he steps back. He stays close enough to watch her face to make sure she's comfortable with all of this touching, but he doesn't belong in this moment and he's not enough of a controlling jerk to try and force himself into it. Besides, his phone starts vibrating as soon as he steps back. He glances at Laurel one last time and then walks away from the group.

''Hello?''

 _''She had a seizure?!''_

Dean grimaces at the sound of his brother's booming voice, holding the phone away from his ear. ''Lower the volume.''

 _''Why didn't you tell me about the seizure?''_ Sam demands. _''I asked you how everything was going and you didn't think to mention that?''_

''Who even told you?''

 _''Thea called,''_ Cas cuts in over the speaker phone. _''And you're avoiding the question.''_

''It's not a big deal.''

Sam sputters. _''How is it not a big deal?''_

''She's dehydrated,'' Dean says, clenching and unclenching his fist at his side. ''She's exhausted, she's still in shock, and I think - It looks like her memories came back to her all at once. I should have been expecting a seizure. You should know that.''

There's silence on the other end, followed by a sigh from Sam. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, guilt pooling in his gut. He doesn't often like to bring up the year after the wall went down because it just brings up way too many bad memories. It was a rough year for all of them. Bobby died, Sam's mind was in pieces, Cas tore out his grace and Fell as some twisted form of penance for everything that happened with the Leviathans, and Dean... It's hard to call it the worst year of his life because it's also the year his daughter was conceived and born, the year he got married, but it wasn't a year full of sunshine and roses. It's not something they talk about a lot.

What's happening to Laurel isn't the same as what happened to Sam but Dean has watched the both of them seize as their own heads attacked them. It's hard not to compare the two situations. He looks back over at Laurel. She doesn't look all that comfortable or at ease around her team anymore, not the way she used to, but the smile on her face tells him she's clearly trying for her friends. He watches her clear her throat, one hand moving up to rub at her throat like it's sore. There's something about the look on her face that's making him uneasy but he's not sure why. Something about it is familiar but he can't quite place it.

 _''She got her memories back?''_ Cas asks.

''Seems like it.''

 _''And how is she now?''_

''Better than before,'' is Dean's careful answer. ''Not as good as she was before April.''

 _''But she seems... She seems like herself?''_

''Who else would she be?''

 _''...A mind controlled zombified killing machine?''_ Sam suggests, uncharacteristically blunt.

Dean swallows and feels the familiar feeling of dread curling around his insides. ''What did you find at the cemetery?'' Neither of them answer him and his white knuckled grip on the phone tightens until he worries he's going to break it. ''I swear, if you two don't start talking - ''

 _''It's witchcraft,''_ Sam says.

Dean feels a disconcerting cold spread throughout his body. Witches. Of course it's witches. They can't keep their goddamn noses out of anything. He looks over at Laurel, suddenly desperate to see her, to make sure she's still here. She's standing over there, speaking quietly with Oliver. He looks far more into the conversation than she does. He's all soft eyed and mushy looking, guilt weighing his shoulders down. He has one hand resting on her right shoulder like he just wants to touch her. Meanwhile, she's dutifully peering up at him, listening politely, but toying with her wedding rings nervously. He can tell by the way her feet are planted on the ground, back ramrod straight, right hand flexing at her side, that she's uncomfortable. He can't tell if it's Oliver or something else that's rattling her.

''Witchcraft,'' he repeats. ''How do you know that?''

 _''There's evidence that a spell was done here,''_ Cas sighs.

 _''We're not sure what kind of spell,''_ Sam adds. _''But it looks like...''_

 _''This is dark, dark magic, Dean.''_

''So they were there?'' Dean demands. ''Whoever did this? They were there last night?''

 _''Well,''_ Cas sounds reluctant. _''They would have had to be there to - ''_

''And they just let her wake up in the ground? They went to all this trouble and they just let her - '' He cuts himself off, sucking in a sharp breath. There is a nagging sensation of impending doom itching away at him as he watches her move her hand from her rings to her throat. ''Someone who gave a crap about her would have at least dug her up.''

 _''Dean,''_ Cas sighs. _''It's just a theory.''_

''But we still don't know who did this spell? And why would she be a mindless killing machine?''

 _''There was this one case that I was working with Eileen in August and - ''_

Whatever the rest of Sam's sentence is, Dean doesn't hear it. He has gone completely numb, muscles tensing. August. Oh, shit. Dinah. He remembers her sitting in the passenger seat, trembling and twitching, drugged to the gills and losing control of the power inside of her. She sat there, suffocating on her own screams like she couldn't breathe through it. He snaps his attention back to Laurel. She looks pale and pinched, determinedly waving off Sara's concern as she clears her throat like she's trying to get something unstuck. ''Holy shit, I have to go.''

 _''What? Wait, Dean, what's - ''_

He ignores his brother's voice and ends the call. Off to the side, still waving off everyone's concern, Laurel starts to cough. Goddamn it. Dean barrels into the fray, shoving himself in between her and the rest of them. These people, regardless of how he feels about them, are way too close to her to escape the blast zone unscathed. He doesn't even know if there's enough time to get them out. ''Laurel.'' He grabs her face in his hands and tries to meet her eyes but they're glazed over and not like hers. She's breathing heavily, clearly trying to keep the scream in. She looks so uncomfortable. He knows this. He's seen this before. He can't help her with this. His eyes scan the underground bunker. How structurally sound is this place anyway?

''All right,'' he lets go of her and steps back. He turns just in time to scowl at Oliver, stopping him in his tracks. ''All right, you all need to back up,'' he orders. ''Right now.''

''Dean - ''

''Get your team out of the building, Oliver,'' the deadly calm tone of his voice seems to jar them because Oliver actually takes a step back, one hand reaching to grab Felicity's elbow. ''You,'' Dean points a finger at Sara. ''Go with them.''

''What? No.'' She sounds offended. ''I'm not leaving her. What's going on?''

''H-He's right,'' Laurel manages to get out. ''He's right. You have to - You have to...'' She breaks off in a groan, one hand jerking up to clutch at her throat, and her entire body starts shuddering.

Everything happens very fast after that. She sinks to the ground, unable to support herself as the grenade inside of her goes off. When Sara rushes toward her, Dean goes after her, latching onto her wrist, and then Laurel _screams._

It explodes out of her, this white hot burst of energy and strength and pure power. And there is nowhere to run. Not down here. This place is big but it's not nearly big enough. The scream reaches every corner of the space they're in, filling it up, bouncing off the walls. It almost seems to zero in on the life inside of the cold bunker. It's like it's alive. In the span of maybe five seconds, before the sound waves fully crash into him, Dean does what he can to do protect Sara. He yanks her away from her sister and takes off running, managing to make it over to a table just in time. He kicks it over to create a half assed makeshift shield, even though it really won't do much, grabs her around the waist, and throws her down to the ground.

The scream that follows after them is excruciating. It's beyond that. This is torture, and he knows a thing or two about torture. This is a weapon. An effective but uncontrollable and unstable weapon.

Somehow, in the twelve hours since she has been back, Laurel has gone from powerless to the most powerful person in the room.

Even his muddled brain filled with screams understands that.

Dean is going on instinct here, reflexively working to protect Sara from the noise. It's natural to him to throw his own body to the wolves to protect someone else. He covers her body with his own to shield her from the shattering glass and tries to keep her as physically close to him as possible to keep her from doing something stupid like running right at the sonic sound waves coming right at them. He can tell that she's got her hands covering her ears, which is a relief because at least it's giving her head a little bit of protection, but his hands are trying to cover her head from the debris. He doesn't have anything to protect his ears.

The noise is unlike any noise he has ever experienced. Even when Dinah unleashed her ridiculously named Siren Song on him over the summer, it didn't feel like this. Not only does it physically slam into you like some sort of unseen wave of pressure that has the force to send you flying through the air, but it gets in your head. It's like it takes everything else and stuffs itself in until all you know is the noise. It bounces around in your skull; a pulsating, constant agony that threatens to turn you inside out at any given moment. It's the kind of pain that can drive you mad. Make you want to bash your head against the wall to get it out. The whole thing lasts ten seconds, fifteen at the most, but it feels like it goes on forever.

It makes you feel like you're melting away and Dean - thoughtlessly unprotected, too busy worrying about Sara to bother to cover his own ears - is melting away fast. His body is beginning to feel boneless and oddly far away, like it's disconnected from him. It's a damn good thing he managed to get his girls out of here.

The last thought he manages to have before he loses all coherency is that if he can't save Laurel from whatever the hell is happening - witchcraft and uncontrollable sonic screams - then Sara better get her head on straight and do her damn job as a sister. Because regardless of whether or not Laurel is _supposed_ to be here, she's here, and he has the distinct feeling that this is only the beginning of the unraveling.

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 **end part three**

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 **Spoiler warning: The beginning portion of the chapter deals primarily with Laurel's past and present issues with addiction, major depressive disorder, panic disorder, and a past suicide attempt.**


	4. Since We've Become Translucent

_AN: So sorry this one took me so long, guys! It's been...a rough summer. I hope the fact that this chapter is 46k words long makes up for it being so late. :)))_

 _Additional spoilery trigger warnings for this chapter are at the bottom of the page._

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 **How the Light Gets In**

 _Written by Becks Rylynn_

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 **Part Four**

 _Since We've Become Translucent_

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 **November, 2016**

Well, shit.

The Lance sisters are really doing a number on him today.

Dean is out for less than a minute after the noise burns out altogether. It's like being in the vicinity of an explosion. The force of it knocks the wind out of him and he blacks out, but he comes to quickly, dazed, disoriented, and irritated that he is dazed and disoriented. There is a distracting ringing in his ears that is slowly dying down to an alarming silence. Because he has been known to be a pigheaded individual, he immediately tries to shake it off and ignore the discomfort. He doesn't have time to be injured right now. He blinks to clear his blurred vision, pushing away the black spots and the fog of pain.

Reluctantly, still unsure if there's going to be another wave, he rolls off Sara to let her squirm away from him. Surprisingly, she doesn't instantly make a break for it. She does roughly shove him back to the ground when he makes a weak attempt to get up, though. She says something to him, but he can't hear a word of it. She raises herself up to look over the overturned table and he can see her lips move, can tell she's shouting at someone, but he can't hear what she's saying. He's honestly irked when she turns her attention back to him. She should be checking on Laurel. He needs a minute before he can move without puking and he has no idea how injured the others are. If they're down, that means Laurel is all alone. He needs her not to be alone right now.

Sara grabs his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. She's talking way too fast for him to read her lips. He blinks, trying to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth to tell her that he can't hear what she's saying to him.

He has never realized how nerve-wracking total silence is. The ringing has stopped completely by now, leaving him with nothing. He can't hear Sara's voice, he doesn't know if anyone else is talking, if they're moving around, and he can't hear Laurel. The loss is startling. He feels so unnervingly defenseless and helpless like this. He wouldn't hear an attacker sneaking up on him. He can't listen for anything happening behind him. He's just stuck here in this noiseless limbo. It's an unexpected horror. You don't realize how loud silence is until it is all you have.

This is what it's going to be like for Mary.

The startling moment of sickening understanding that he has never had the chance to have before sends his heart plummeting. One day, his little girl will be here. There will be the possibility for hearing aids, maybe even a cochlear implant if it comes to that, but it's not the same. He's been told that before. Hearing aids and cochlear implants are amazing technology but they're not quite the same as natural hearing. It's not like Mary won't be able to be happy regardless of what happens. There has been a lot of therapy over the years to deal with Mary's diagnosis, a lot of research, and Eileen has been an amazing resource and great support over the years. _We make the best out of what we're given_ , she says. _Your daughter will live a happy, full life, with or without hearing. Trust me._

And he _does_. He does trust Eileen on that. He knows that her hearing - or lack thereof - doesn't define Mary as a person and he knows that he's going to do whatever it takes to give her a good life no matter what happens. It's just that - Mary's so young. She loves music, when her mother sings to her and when he reads her a story. She loves to hear. But one day, this might be the silence she will have to live in. How fucking unfair. He is a grown man and even this temporary deafness is terrifying to him. He can't imagine how scary it will be for a kid to suddenly be here with no way out.

He tries to tear himself out of it. He can panic about that later. He looks at Sara, still trying to talk to him, lips pulled down into a concerned frown. Finally, she seems to clue in to what's going on because she gives up on talking and sits back on her knees, looking at him closely before signing, _Can you hear me?_

Considering she's only ever had a rudimentary knowledge of sign language in the time he's known her, that's damn impressive. He and Laurel have worked with her, but she's never been fluent. She must be practicing regularly. For Mary. She's never done that before.

He swallows hard and shakes his head.

Her eyes widen in panic. _Nothing?_

''Not a damn thing,'' he says. Given the way she jumps at the sound of his voice, he's going to guess that he's talking too loudly. ''It's not a big deal. I just need a minute.''

A scowl twists onto her lips and she lurches into his personal space to punch him on the shoulder. She says, slowly so he can read her lips, ''Why. Didn't. You. Cover. Your. Ears?''

''Uh, I was protecting you? Don't be ungrateful, Sara.''

She says something else but all he manages to catch is ''fucking loser'' before she lunges into his personal space and kisses his cheek. He huffs. ''Okay, all right. Fuck.'' He shoves her away from him. ''Go check on Laurel.'' For someone who had been adamant that Laurel doesn't belong here, Sara sure takes off mighty quick. The girl crawls over broken glass to get to her sister.

Dean can't exactly move yet. He breathes through the dizziness, waiting impatiently for his hearing to return. He thinks he can feel it starting to come back. With every second that goes by, pieces of sound begin to reach him once more. It's not happening fast enough for his liking. Slowly, blinking away the double vision, he heaves himself to his feet. Feeling dangerously off balance, he has to stop, keeled over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily and gritting his teeth against the waves of nausea. The ringing comes back with a vengeance the second he's on his feet, followed by muffled clattering noises.

When Dinah had unleashed her scream last summer, it wasn't nearly as bad as this. Ringing ears and a headache that lasted a couple days, sure, but he hadn't felt like passing out. Of course he had covered his ears. He hadn't been in the direct path of it, they hadn't been in an enclosed space, and she had been able to control it better. To contain it within a straight line ahead of her so it didn't deafen him. He hadn't realized how lucky he had gotten. Laurel doesn't have that much control over it yet.

Dean shakes his head, wincing as his ears pop painfully. The sound grows louder. Still nowhere near his normal hearing level but good enough for now. He can at least pick out specific noises. Crunching glass, Felicity shrieking Oliver's name, and crying. Sobbing, actually. Guttural, gulping cries of horror. He straightens to survey the damage. ''Holy...''

Scratch that earlier sentiment.

Laurel does not have _any_ control over this thing.

It looks like a bomb went off in this place. There's no other way to describe it. This isn't just a few knocked over chairs and broken glass. This is obliteration. Frankly, they're all lucky they're not dead. But the place hasn't collapsed into itself and buried them underneath the rubble, so honestly who the hell cares? This is a place. It's not important.

He sends a glance in the direction of Team Arrow, just to make sure they are, in fact, still alive. Oliver looks the worst. He has rolled onto his stomach from his back, eyes out of focus, failing to push himself up onto his knees, clearly in pain, and his left ear is bleeding. That's probably bad. Dean almost hesitates. It's instinct. He doesn't like Oliver Queen, but the guy is still a person and, for whatever reason, he seems to have taken the brunt of the scream. Then he catches sight of John and Felicity. He's rubbing at his shoulder with a grimace, she's disheveled and wide eyed, glasses askew on her face, but they're both alive and conscious and she's already kicking off her heels to race over to Oliver so - meh. That weird threesome over there can probably take care of each other.

Laurel is the one Dean is worried about. Fuck everyone else. They're breathing. That's good enough. She is a mess right now. She's on all fours on the ground and he can't tell if the way her body is heaving is from sobbing or a panic attack. Sara is kneeling in front of her, trying to talk. When she reaches out to touch her knee, Laurel jerks away and scrambles away from her sister, screeching out a hysterical, ''Don't touch me!''

That's what propels Dean out of his shock. He shoves away the remnants of pain and staggers over broken glass and bits of Green Arrow's dismantled whatever the fuck this is to get to her. By the time he manages to get to her, she has already crawled away from Sara and is clearly trying to isolate herself. She's pushed herself up onto her knees and her horrified eyes are looking around at the damage she's done. She looks so scared. Out of everything that has ever happened to her, everything she's faced, her greatest fear has always been herself. He has witnessed that fear first hand. She gets so far into her own head that sometimes he's not sure she'll make it back out. Losing control has been her worst case scenario since she was a kid.

''Laurel - ''

''Get away from me.'' She turns her scared eyes to him. She's stopped sobbing now, too shocked by her surroundings, body coming down from the stress of whatever just happened, but there are still tears rolling down her cheeks. She looks pale and clammy and her breathing is too quick for his comfort. ''You have to stay away from me.''

He sets his jaw, stubborn. ''No,'' he says. ''I don't.''

She looks at him like he's lost his mind. ''Dean, please,'' she begs. There is this horrified, breathless urgency in her voice and every time he attempts to reach out to her, she scoots back. ''Please, just...'' She sniffles and wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. She looks away from him, squeezing her eyes shut. ''I need a minute, okay? I don't want to hurt you.''

He stops. He draws his hand back, away from her. ''Okay.'' He wants to tell her that she won't hurt him, that she could never, but that wouldn't exactly be the truth, would it?

''Look what I did,'' she gets out, opening her eyes. ''I could have killed you. I - oh my god.'' A stricken look crosses her face and she looks back at him, face pale with fear. ''Mary,'' she breathes. ''Mary - Mary...'' She grasps at his arms desperately. ''Dean, she's - She's so little. I - I could have - ''

''Laurel, she's not here,'' he rushes to assure her. ''Thea took her out of here. She's safe. They both are.''

Her whole body slumps in relief and she pulls back, yanking her hands away from him, slipping out of his grasp. She buries her face in her hands with this devastated, pained moan. He bites back a sigh, looking her over for any obvious injuries. She's not hurt, at least not physically, but he doesn't like the way her body is trembling. He's lived with her long enough to spot an incoming panic attack and he doesn't want her to have to deal with that on top of everything else. He just wants to take her home so she can sleep it off. It's irrational but there is this frantic part of him that is thinking if they can just go home and crawl into bed then maybe things will be back to the way they were when they wake up.

He risks a quick glance over at Sara. She has pulled herself to her feet, standing there absently picking glass out of her palms while she looks back and forth between Laurel and the other team. Dean glances over his shoulder quickly, spotting Oliver standing unsteadily on his feet. John and Felicity are standing on either side of him and John's hands are on his face, tilting his head to the side. They're both talking to him, but he's not responding to either of them. It's not that he's too out of it to respond either. He's not disoriented or confused. He's just focused on something else. His eyes are on Laurel and only Laurel. He doesn't even seem to give a shit that he is literally bleeding from the ear. The only thing keeping him from marching over to her is John's tight grip on him.

That's annoying.

''Okay,'' Felicity's voice is shaky and breathless, but loud enough to reach Dean. She gives up on trying to talk to Oliver, turning to look at Laurel. ''What _was_ that? I mean...'' She fixes her glasses, frowning deeply. ''What the hell was that?''

Laurel shakes her head. ''I...'' It's all she can get out. She looks at Felicity, and then she looks at Oliver and John, eyes instantly clouding over with guilt when she spots the blood. She reaches up to clutch at the table with one hand, but doesn't move to pull herself up.

Dean looks over his shoulder at Felicity. To her credit, she doesn't look particularly angry or like she wants to chew Laurel out. The expression on her face keeps flickering between horror and fascination. She looks like she can't decide whether she should be saying ''that was the coolest thing ever'' or ''that was fucked up and terrible.''

''Personally,'' Sara chooses this moment to speak up, talking loudly, over the sound of various clatters and electrical sparks. ''I'd say that was a Canary Cry of some sort.''

''That was nothing like her Canary Cry!'' Felicity shrieks, and then turns her focus back to Laurel. ''How did you do that? Did you know you could do that?''

''Felicity,'' John says, grasping her elbow gently.

''Give her a minute to breathe here,'' Dean snaps out, perhaps too defensively. He doesn't think Felicity's curiosity is malicious or even misplaced, but the patience has been blown out of him. He turns back to his wife. ''Laurel,'' he says. ''Hey.'' He wants so badly to be able to touch her. That's the only way he knows how to deal with these situations. All he's ever been able to do to help her is hold her hands and rub her temples and he can't do either right now. ''Baby, look at me.''

She looks up at him, waiting for him to say something that helps her, but she doesn't say anything to him. She seems to mostly be focused on her breathing right now, struggling against the panic.

''You didn't mean to do this.'' It's not good enough, but it's all he manages to come up with. ''It was an accident. This is all new. You're not used to it yet.''

''I don't want to get used to this!'' She bursts out, sounding incredulous. ''I don't want it!'' She clenches her teeth. The look in her eyes takes on a desperate, pleading gleam. ''What's happening to me?''

He can't answer that question. He has...an idea. He wants to be wrong. He needs to be wrong. This power - it corrupted Dinah. He knows that her villain origin story can't solely be blamed on this power, that she was lost a long time before she got her cry, but it didn't help her. This thing gave her the means to destroy herself and the people around her. It gave her a reason to go from morally questionable to bad and from bad to worse. In her own words, it ''rotted her from the inside out.'' He knows that Laurel isn't the same person. She's never had the same kind of darkness inside of her. She is not Dinah. But, in another life, she could have been. That's the whole point. He can't let what happened to Dinah happen to Laurel. He can't watch her turn into someone who needs to be stopped rather than saved.

''I...'' He can't make the words come out. ''Laurel...'' He needs to tell her about Dinah. He has no right to keep that from her. It's just that Sara is right behind him and Team Arrow is licking their wounds close by and - okay. Maybe it wasn't the best decision he's ever made but he never actually told any of them about Dinah. Oliver might know, if Barry told him, but there's no telling exactly how much he knows. Even if he does know the full story, there's a good chance he hasn't told his team any of it. In any case, this isn't exactly how Dean wants to have the Dinah conversation, so he doesn't say a word.

His lack of an answer does nothing to help Laurel. She reaches out to grasp at his hand, holding onto him tightly, tighter than ever. ''I can't do this,'' she says, voice low. She says it like it should be obvious to him, like the idea of her having some sort of power is the most ridiculous thing in the world. ''This isn't me. This can't be me. You have to get this thing out of me.''

He's not sure how to tell her that he doesn't think it works that way. ''Let's get you up, okay?'' He stands and instead of invading her space and lifting her up the way he normally would, he slowly offers her his hand and gives her the choice to take it or not. She's clearly reluctant, but she takes his hand. He helps her to her feet and squashes down the instinct to pull her into a hug.

''I couldn't...'' She pauses. ''I couldn't control it. It just - ''

''I know,'' he nods. ''I know, Laur.''

''How do you know?'' They both turn to Sara. There is red blood oozing from her wounds sickeningly, dripping down her wrist and arm. It's a stark contrast to her pale skin. ''You knew she was going to scream,'' she accuses, ''and you knew what that scream was going to do. How?''

There are many ways to answer that question. Dean thinks of Dinah, of August, of Laurel's fear and uncertainty, and he says, simply, ''Lucky guess.''

.

.

.

 **August, 2016**

 _The first time he met his wife's evil doppelganger, Dinah ''call me Black Siren'' Lance, she pressed herself up against the far wall of her cell with legitimate terror in her eyes and whispered, ''How did you get out of Arkham?''_

 _Which, among other things, does not exactly paint a flattering portrait of his Earth Two counterpart._

 _Disappointing, really._

 _Back when she had first told him about the Multiverse theory, Laurel said she was hoping for their counterparts to be ''a badass rock star couple - you know, like Beyoncé and Jay Z, but probably not as cool.''_

 _He had laughed, winding his arms around her waist and leaning down for a kiss. ''You'd be a great rock star, babe,'' he mumbled against her lips. ''A Black Canary band would rock the charts.''_

 _But nope. No badass rock star couple. Just one manipulative siren and some murderous psychopath locked away in a padded cell. That's just their luck. Even on another earth, their lives are both intertwined and depressing as fuck._

 _He still hasn't been able to get the way she looked at him out of his head. He likes to think they've moved past it. Forged some kind of bond. He's the only one who visits her. The only one who treats her like a person. He would like to think that means something. He's got so many other images of her in his head now, most of them of her smirk, but the one that still won't leave him is the way she looked at him when she first saw him, paralyzed and genuinely afraid for her life. Maybe that's the problem. That fear, that split second of vulnerability - it colored his view of her. He thought Dinah wasn't someone to be feared._

 _He was wrong._

 _You never trust a siren. He should have known that. He's not going to make that mistake again._

 _Dean props one shoulder up against a tree across from City Hall and huffs impatiently, checking his watch for the millionth time. He takes a sip of his cheap lukewarm coffee and thinks about all the things he should be doing with his day. He should be at work. He doesn't have an infinite number of sick days and vacation time. He's been trying to save them up so he can spend more time with Mary._

 _Working full time has been harder than expected. It's been a rough transition for the both of them. Mary has been acting out more: throwing tantrums, not wanting to sleep in her own bed, acting extra clingy with him, and potty training has gone totally out the window. He's still not sleeping enough - and Mary regressing back to not sleeping through the night is not helping - and he's been moody and irritable lately. Even more so than usual. Neither of them are at their best right now. They've never been apart for this long before._

 _It's hard to get the hang of this new life. The one where Laurel is just a memory and he can't spend all day every day with his daughter. He's tired, he is so damn tired all the time, and so is Mary. They miss each other, they miss Laurel, and nothing can be done about it. This is just their life now. It is what it is. He doesn't want to be away from her but what choice does he have? He needs to put a roof over her head and food in her belly, and he's the only one left to do it now._

 _It has been four months. Almost exactly. Four months trapped in some fucked up world without Laurel in it, and it still hurts just as much as it did in April. More, even. He no longer has shock and anger to cushion the blow. All that's left is the pain._

 _He still wakes up in the mornings, unnerved by the absence of her humming or calling out, ''Wake up, sleepyheads! The sun has to rise every morning, and so do you!'' He still expects her to walk through the front door, arms loaded with work, kicking her heels off and calling out greetings to him and the girls. He knows he's not the only one who feels that unevenness. Mary aches just as much as he does. Sometimes when he wakes her up in the mornings, she still asks him, half asleep and whining about having her sleep disturbed, ''Mommy home yet?''_

 _Last Saturday, they were both in the kitchen, and he was making her breakfast while she played with her stuffed animals. She was quiet, unusually so, and when he sat down with her, placing her breakfast down in front of her, all he got was a quick sign of,_ Thank you. _She munched on her strawberries, poked at her toast, and he watched her, absently stirring his coffee. Eventually, she pushed her food aside and grabbed her stuffed dog from the chair next to her. ''Daddy,'' she said, very seriously. ''This is Piper. Do you know Piper?''_

 _''Yes, baby girl, I know Piper,'' he smiled. ''I knew her back when she was Sprinkles.''_

 _''Piper doesn't have a mommy,'' she announced bluntly. ''Her mommy left her. Like mine. I don't have a mommy now too.''_

 _That had been like a punch to the gut. ''Mary,'' he'd tried. ''Pumpkin, you do have a mom.''_

 _She was having none of it. ''Nu-uh,'' she shook her head, adamant. ''No mom.''_

 _''Mary - ''_

 _''No, no, no, no!'' She put her hands over her ears and glared at him like he was the worst person in the world for daring disagree with her. ''I don't have a mommy! She left! She LEFT!''_

 _She wouldn't accept any other answer. He had, admittedly, pushed harder than he should have, desperately trying to remind her that she did have a mother, an amazing one. He wanted her to know that Laurel hadn't left her on purpose. That her mother loved her and would have done anything to stay. She wound up screeching at him in rage and throwing Piper at his head before picking up a slice of toast, turning it over, and smashing it onto the table, making sure to drag sticky peanut butter and honey all over the table. It was such an oddly calculated, deliberate 'fuck you' that it took him a good five seconds to react to it beyond stunned blinking._

 _Death isn't something that's easily understandable for little kids but it's a lesson Mary has been forced to learn. Grief is a heavy burden to bear. Far too heavy for a child. He knows that better than most. But this is where they are now. There's no way out of it. Somehow, despite the tantrums and regressions, she has still managed to handle all of this with more grace and more dignity than most of the adults around her. You grow up fast when you lose a parent young. He knows that too._

 _He would give anything to be able to take it from her but he can't. He can help her manage it. He can teach her how to carry the weight of her mother's ghost without breaking her back until it becomes such a fundamental part of her that she won't know who she is without it. But he needs time to be able to do that and he needs to be able to spend it with her. He's not just the primary caregiver anymore. He's a single parent. He has to be there for her as much as possible. He doesn't have time for this fucking ridiculous bullshit._

 _Dean tosses his coffee in a nearby garbage can and scans the steps of City Hall again. All the things he should be doing right now and he's stuck stalking Oliver Queen. Fuck his life. This is so backwards. He should have let Allen and his Scooby Gang handle this. This is mostly their mess. Star Labs is housing an unsanctioned underground prison full of superpowered villains. They should have had safe guards in place. Better ones. He checks his watch one more time and decides he's giving it five more minutes. Five more minutes and then he's going home to Mary to salvage what's left of the day. This isn't even his job. He's retired from weird shit. He's a civilian._

 _...The murder of Damien Darhk notwithstanding._

 _Exactly two minutes later, he spots Oliver._

 _What a shame. He had been looking forward to giving up. Now he actually has to be productive and do things. He hates doing things. It really fucks with his goal of ordering pizza and hiding in bed for the rest of his miserable life._

 _The embattled new Mayor pushes through the doors of City Hall and hurries down the steps. He looks like crap. He is frantically tugging at his tie like it's choking him as he bolts down the stairs and Felicity is racing after him as fast as she can go in her sky-high heels. Dean rolls his eyes. Whatever ridiculous relationship drama those two are embroiled in this week better not get in his way._

 _He looks around, keeping his eyes peeled for a familiar face. He hasn't seen her yet but now that Oliver's on the move, he expects she'll be crawling out of whatever hidey-hole she's jammed herself into. It's mildly sickening to think about her trailing after that moron like a lovesick puppy dog but if her misguided love helps him find her, he'll take the help._

 _On the other side of the street, Oliver stops in his tracks, visibly heaves a sigh, and then jogs back up the steps to Felicity. He dutifully offers her his hand to hold onto as she struggles down the steep steps in her precarious shoes. Well, at least the guy's not a complete dick. At this moment. Neither of them look like they are in particularly amazing moods. Huh. Almost like being in positions they're both flagrantly unqualified for is hard or something._

 _Imagine that._

 _Dean sighs heavily and curses his life, but follows them, making sure to stay on the other side of the street, shrouded by the crowds of people. It's lunch hour in downtown Star City and there are people everywhere, bustling down the sidewalks, rushing to food trucks, coffee carts, and nearby restaurants for quick bites to eat. The crowd cover is doing a great job of concealing the fact that he's tailing Oliver. Unfortunately, it's doing an even better job of concealing the woman he's searching for. She could be anywhere. Impatiently, he picks up the pace, following after them for over a block. His eyes scan the crowds for that familiar face but he can't see her among the throngs of people._

 _Strangely, he thinks he has Felicity to thank for how he eventually spots her. She stops at a coffee cart in front of the local museum, pulling on Oliver's arm until he takes out his wallet to buy her a coffee. Dean is just starting to think his hunch may have been bogus when Oliver's entire body goes rigid. He hands over a few bills to the coffee guy, looking numb and stiff, and then whirls around. For a second, Dean worries he's been made. Except Oliver is not looking at Dean. His wild eyes are scanning the crowd as he staggers away from Felicity, rudely pushing past strangers to get to whatever he has spotted in the crowd. He looks like he's seen a ghost._

 _Dean straightens, pulse speeding up. He ducks out of sight and follows Oliver's gaze. Wannabe Robin Hood over there is spinning in a circle now, desperately searching. He gives up, shoulders sagging, turning to say something to Felicity. Dean looks at every person, every face, until he spots her. He barely manages to catch a glimpse of her uncharacteristically soft eyes and downturned mouth before she breaks away from the crowd and rushes away. She sprints up the steps towards the courtyard outside the museum._

 _He sends a cursory glance in Oliver's direction and then takes off after her, crossing the street and jogging up the steps. He doesn't exactly have what one would call a plan. He just knows he needs to get to her before she disappears. He sure as hell needs to keep her away from Team Arrow. She may be a vexing con woman but he is not letting those people put her down like she's a rabid dog._

 _She's proven herself to be incredibly slippery, which means he needs to keep his eyes on her. He does manage to do this. For about a minute. He's trailing after her, making sure to keep a few people in between them, and then it's just like - poof! A group of suits cuts in front of him and as soon as they're gone, so is she._

 _''Shit.'' He turns around, eyes moving from person to person. She is nowhere to be found. He cranes his neck to see if she's over by the entrance to the museum. Nothing. He turns back to the street in case she has somehow managed to back track and get past him without him noticing. Still nothing. It's like she's vanished into thin air. He groans, running a hand over his face. ''Son of a bitch.''_

 _All right, so maybe it's possible he's off his game. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to breathe through the frustration making his jaw tick. Slippery might have been an understatement. He takes a deep breath. Tries to think of a new plan. Where else would she go? This isn't her world. She doesn't know anyone. Where would she -_

 _''Are you looking for me?''_

 _Dean goes still._

 _Oh, well, of course._

 _A slow chuckle rises up in his throat. Slowly, he turns around, and there she is. Dinah Laurel Lance 2.0 in all her glory. She is sitting on a bench, one leg crossed over the other, eyes sparkling deviously with a wide grin stretching across her lips. She seems to greatly enjoy the anger on his face. ''Hey there, sugar,'' she chirps. ''Miss me?''_

 _Usually, he would respond to that with a quick-witted quip of his own, but he's got nothing. He can't help but falter at the sight of her. She looks so profoundly different out here in the real world. In the pipeline, her hair was greasy and unkempt. She was pale and makeup free, wearing Star Labs sweats, with deep, dark circles under her eyes and a permanent scowl on her lips. She paced around her cell like a caged animal, tossing out insults, throwing tantrums, and - apparently - plotting her escape. She was a prisoner._

 _Now she's sitting here, free as a bird, confident, at ease, glowing in the sunlight. He has never met this Dinah. Never known her in this kind of environment. She looks so comfortable in her skin, makeup done, hair styled and swept off to the side - a style Laurel used to wear all the time. It worries him. For a lot of reasons. He no longer has the upper hand here. There is no sonic scream proof glass between them. He has no way to protect himself or the civilians crawling all around them._

 _And it's harder now. To look at her and not see the woman he loves. He still maintains that she does not look nearly as Laurel-like as other people seem to think. She's not a clone. They're not identical twins. They just look similar enough to make him vastly uncomfortable._

 _When she was in the pipeline, she bore a striking resemblance to Laurel, but she was not her and that was so easy to tell. She would throw her fits, shrieking with rage over her incarceration, spewing incredibly personal and hurtful insults, threatening bodily harm, and she would get incredibly pissed off when no one was properly intimidated by her threats. She would pace, make her demands, throw whatever she could at the door, at the cameras, until everything had to be removed from her cell so that she didn't hurt herself. She would seduce and manipulate and use her words as weapons. He doesn't want to say she's psychotic but... He also doesn't want to say she's not psychotic. Dinah is full of this wild, animalistic rage and arrogance. She does not like to be caged._

 _None of that was Laurel. Laurel was never some beast full of rage. She had her righteous anger, her irrational annoyance, her stubbornness, but she was not this. Laurel and Dinah are like light and dark, night and day. Mirror images but not the same. Not at all. In the pipeline, he couldn't see Laurel in Dinah no matter how hard he tried. They are not in the pipeline now. Dinah is not pacing. She is not throwing a tantrum or spewing insults. She's not disheveled and desperate. She's comfortable. When she looks at him, her eyes are just soft enough, just Laurel enough, to hurt._

 _The wardrobe, however. No Laurel in that. She's sitting there wearing combat boots, criminally short denim shorts, an oversized Mudhoney t-shirt, and a black and red plaid flannel shirt like she's just escaped the 90's grunge era rather than an underground prison. Dean carefully considers his next move. He doesn't want to spook her by approaching her too aggressively, but if he's too soft, she'll see right through him. He eventually decides on an arched eyebrow, a judgmental frown, and a snarky, ''What's up with being all Kathleen Hanna?''_

 _She cocks her head to the side. ''Excuse me?''_

 _''This is your personal style?'' He gestures at her Riot Grrrl cosplay - complete with a septum piercing and everything. ''You look like you belong in Seattle circa 1992.''_

 _She laughs at him. It's not the nicest laugh in the world. Very different from Laurel's light, sweet laughter. ''That's your opening line?''_

 _He shrugs and hesitantly moves into her space to take a seat next to her on the bench. She seems disconcertingly at ease right now, completely unbothered by his presence. He doesn't worry her in the least. That's... Well, valid. She could take him down just by opening her mouth. Her confidence might be an issue. Dinah knows her power. She knows she can beat him._

 _''Should've known they would call you.'' Her voice is nothing but vaguely amused._

 _''I'm your emergency contact,'' he reminds her. ''They call me for a lot of things. Usually whenever they need me to talk you out of one of your dumbass hunger strikes or calm you down from one of your tantrums.''_

 _She snaps her head over to him, eyes narrowed. ''They forget to turn off the lights, you know,'' she says, voice harsh and short._

 _He frowns. ''What?''_

 _''The Flash and his sidekicks,'' she snarls. ''They called you because I escaped. You're here to bring me back because you arrogant, self-righteous white knights think of me as some big, bad wolf the world needs to be protected from. Well, let me tell you something, sweetheart,'' she bites out. ''Those white knights forget to turn those bright, fluorescent lights off in our cells at least half the time. Do you know what it's like to be under those lights 24 hours a day? You think we get any sleep? We get food once a day. Sometimes twice. If they remember. They don't always remember. We don't get fresh air. We don't get to bathe. We get a bed, a toilet, and a shitty meal once a day.'' She drops her gaze down to her lap and swallows visibly. ''They've forgotten we're people,'' she says, quietly. ''They treat us like objects shoved in storage.'' She shakes her head. ''They're not fit to be running a prison.''_

 _Harsh. Although not entirely untrue. Dean looks up at the blue skies. He does have at least a modicum of respect for Central City's team of superpowered misfits. They seem to respect each other and themselves. They work as a team. Unlike this poor city's team of whatever the fuck they think they are. But, yeah. She's right. The pipeline prison is shit. He's told them that. Loudly and angrily. He's told them that people aren't pet rocks. He's brought up the Geneva Convention. He's made demands. It's not that they don't understand, is the thing. It's not that they don't care. It's that they don't have the manpower to properly run a prison, but they're too stubborn to give up control._

 _''No,'' he agrees. ''They're not. They weren't trained for this, Dee.''_

 _''Then they shouldn't be doing it.''_

 _He opens his mouth to argue, but can't actually come up with an argument. ''Maybe not.'' She doesn't say anything else, but the thin line of her mouth clearly shows that she's agitated. He doesn't say anything else to her, waiting for her to speak again, but she doesn't. After a minute of tense silence, he can't help himself any longer. ''So let me get this straight,'' he starts. ''You plan this elaborate prison break and instead of disappearing to some sunny island off the coast of nowhere with little cocktail umbrellas, big hats, and some itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini - ''_

 _''Oddly specific.''_

 _'' - You waste your time stalking your dead husband's doppelganger?''_

 _She slides her gaze to him slowly, with a deadly glower. Briefly, just for a second, she looks shaken. She recovers at an alarming speed, relaxing back against the bench and running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to look nonchalant. ''How did you know?''_

 _''You mentioned a husband who drowned nearly a decade ago,'' he says. ''I put two and two together.''_

 _She nods, licking her lips. ''It happened here too?'' She questions. ''The Gambit?''_

 _''Went down in the North China sea in 2007.''_

 _She nods again, seemingly processing that information. ''He came back here,'' she says. It's the softest he's ever heard her voice sound. Dinah has been all smirks and sharp edges in the time he's known her. Wit and anger and manipulation but very little heart. It's jarring to see her so human. She's no longer this idea of a person trapped behind bulletproof glass like a sideshow attraction. She's an actual person. Someone who loved and lost just like he did. It's confusing. ''Ollie never came back to me on my earth,'' she admits, very quietly._

 _Dean clears his throat. ''Your Oliver,'' he says. ''Was he a good man?''_

 _She looks at him curiously. ''He was.'' He gets the feeling it's the most honest answer she has ever given him. There are no riddles surrounding it. No smirks. Just a quiet admission with a lot of love behind it._

 _''Then don't go looking for him in this one,'' he warns. ''You won't find him there. It's not him.'' He doesn't say it to hurt her. It's just that he gets the feeling she would be sorely disappointed with this earth's piss poor version of her beloved Ollie._

 _''No,'' she agrees, turning to look at him. ''But does it really matter? You tell me, Dean. Come find me in ten years and tell me how much it matters that I'm not her.''_

 _He doesn't have a response to that. He doesn't want to think about it. Imagining being here without her for ten years is hard enough. He doesn't want to add that complication to the mix. He brushes past it, commenting lightly, ''You don't seem surprised to see me.''_

 _''Should I be?'' Her lips pull back into a toothy, wolfish smile. Now there's the bloodthirsty egomaniac he knows. ''You've been looking for me. And it's not like you're a threat to me,'' she adds on. She seems to find the idea of him being a threat to her to be a truly laughable thought. ''You could never hurt me. Not when I look like her.''_

 _He doesn't bother to refute her claims. She's probably right. He watches as a group of kids file up the steps. They're all wearing purple shirts that exclaim, 'Treehouse Day Camp' and they're all chattering excitedly. The woman at the head of the group is going on and on about the buddy system in an obnoxiously perky voice and her assistants, two teenage girls following after the group, both look more interested in their phones rather than making sure no kids get left behind. Mary would hate that. She starts preschool in September and even that makes her hiss like a pissed off cat._

 _''See those kids?'' Dinah asks, still smiling, still perfectly comfortable with his presence. ''If you try anything, I'll bring that building down right on top of their tiny lice infested heads. That,'' she grins, ''is how I know you can never be a threat.''_

 _Kind of a brazenly horrific threat. Kind of also bullshit. It's a hilariously blatant bluff. Dean is well aware that he needs to get her out of the public to avoid any potential civilian casualties. That's a given. Regardless of the amount of control she possesses, she still has what can only be described as a bomb inside of her. But she would never hurt children. He's sure of that. Dinah may not be particularly open about her life over on Earth Two but he has his suspicions. Something about her interactions with him changed considerably when she found out his Laurel was a mother. It's why he's never been able to understand why she's not desperate to get home._

 _''What's your plan here, Dinah?'' He asks, arching an eyebrow and blowing past her ridiculously over the top threat that's not even worth acknowledging._

 _''Why would I tell you that?''_

 _He shrugs, sending her a lazy smirk. ''Hey, you said it yourself. I'm not a threat to you.'' It doesn't get him anywhere. Her expression remains impassive. ''You look like my wife,'' he reminds her. He makes sure to sound as agonized as possible. It's not that hard to do. ''You have her face. Her voice. Her body. I've been hard wired to protect that. Not hurt it.''_

 _''And that means...?''_

 _''What if I told you I'm not here to bring you in?'' The look she gives him in response to that is hard to stomach. It's so Laurel-like. He can't look at it and not see her there. It's like he's sitting next to a ghost. Or hallucinating again._ _''What if I said I wanted to help you?'' He asks. ''Would you believe me?''_

 _Dinah blinks at him, speechless, and then she smirks, looks away, and just like that, Laurel is gone again. ''No. Here's what I've learned about you, Dean,'' she leans in closer to him. ''You've gone soft.'' She looks like she's enjoying this way too much. ''Whoever, whatever you used to be - you're not that guy anymore. You're going to do whatever she would have done. And she would bring me in.''_

 _''She would,'' he says. ''No doubt about it. It's the right thing to do. But I'm not Laurel, and I'm taking off my WWLD bracelet for this one.'' He follows her lead and leans in closer to her, too close, inches away from her lips. Admittedly, his body is very confused right now. ''I don't want you here,'' he murmurs. ''I don't want my daughter to see you. I don't want Thea to see you.''_

 _She does seem thrown by that, drawing away from him._

 _''If that means helping you,'' he goes on, ''then that's what I'm going to do.'' For a second, as he says it, he doesn't know if it's a lie. ''So, what's the plan? Where do you think you're going to go?''_

 _She smiles crookedly. ''My plan was always to retire to the sun and sand.''_

 _''And how do you plan on getting to the sun and sand? You have no passport. You have no money. You have nothing. You're smart, Dinah. I know you are. Look at the escape you pulled off. You were a second generation con woman,'' he points out, ''right?''_

 _''I was a fucking amazing con woman,'' she corrects._

 _''Then I'm sure you had it all on your earth,'' he says. ''Everything you needed to survive. Cash, multiple identities, travel documents, offshore accounts, safe houses, drop boxes. All of it. That's the problem. We're not on your earth. This is not your world.'' Calmly, he goes back to watching the people of Star City rush past._

 _Not a single person seems to have recognized the face of the very publicly deceased Black Canary. A relief, but it's only a matter of time until someone sees her. He needs to nip that in the bud before some blogger takes a picture and decides to make Siren social media famous. The buzz surrounding Laurel's life and death is just starting to die down. The investigation into him has officially ended, he's no longer getting daily phone calls from reporters and producers, asking for interviews or permission to make a Lifetime movie out of her life, and he doesn't want to stir that up again._

 _''You've got no contacts here,'' he reminds her. ''No safety net. You're alone.'' He can see her grit her teeth at the dig, but she doesn't say a word. ''You need help.''_

 _She seems to take great offense to the mere idea of needing help from someone. ''I can survive on my own,'' she sneers. ''I always have.'' There is an interesting note of bitterness to that last statement. ''You can relax. I have no intention of staying in this city. I know you won't believe me,'' she lowers her voice, ''but I don't want to hurt your daughter.''_

 _It doesn't sound like a lie. Then again, the best lies never do. ''Good to know. It would be a shit storm if someone saw you, and I just got Barbara Walters to quit riding my ass for an exclusive.''_

 _She rolls her eyes at him. ''She's retired, Dean.''_

 _''Whatever,'' he waves his hand dismissively. ''They're all the same. Wait, how do you know she retired?''_

 _''Iris.''_

 _He raises his eyebrows, surprised. ''Iris?''_

 _''She talks to me,'' she admits. ''When it's her turn to bring me food. She's the only one who doesn't treat me like I'm less than human.''_

 _That sounds like Iris. ''Well,'' he mutters gruffly. ''Congrats on fucking that up. Those kids you hurt when you escaped,'' he explains. ''One of them is Wally West. Her brother.''_

 _Dinah scowls. ''First of all,'' she points a finger at him. ''I barely scratched those kids. They'll be fine. Second of all, that boy hit me with a car.''_

 _''Now he's gearing up to hit you with another.''_

 _''I admire his tenacity,'' she remarks, dryly. ''Anyway, it doesn't matter what Iris thinks of me. It doesn't matter what any of them think of me. I'm never going to see them again.''_

 _''Riiiight,'' he drawls. ''Because you're leaving town. Somehow. With no resources.''_

 _''I'll figure it out,'' she snaps, determinedly stubborn._

 _He leans back against the bench, stretching his arms out over the back of it. ''You're not going to let me help, are you?''_

 _''Nope.'' She beams at him. ''I don't trust you as far as I can throw you.''_

 _He lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. ''Your prerogative.'' He studies her face in the sunshine. If he's being honest, even with the makeover, she still doesn't look all that much like Laurel. She's pale. He's never noticed that about her before. In the pipeline, under all that harsh and artificial light, she didn't look her best. This is a different kind of pale. She's also really fucking skinny. He tilts his head to the side and frowns. Well, that could be an advantage. ''Are you hungry?''_

 _She looks at him as if he has lost the last tiny, clinging part of his sanity. ''What?''_

 _''Food,'' he says slowly. ''Do you want some? When's the last time you ate?''_

 _She narrows her eyes at him, studying him closely like she's trying to figure out of this is some kind of weird assassination attempt. ''Why do you care?''_

 _He rolls his eyes at her. ''Oh, come on.'' He bumps her shoulder with his. She stiffens, but mercifully doesn't kill him or even burst his eardrums. ''You look like shit,'' he states, bluntly. ''You're clearly starving. Let's go get a burger or something. My treat.''_

 _''You...'' She blinks, dazed. ''...Want to buy me a burger?''_

 _''It doesn't have to be a burger.'' He turns his back to the sun, stepping in front of her to blot it out. ''What are you into? Any weird dietary restrictions? Laurel had a hard time digesting red meat - ''_

 _''I'm sure she would appreciate you telling me that.''_

 _''People were always so surprised when they found out all those cheeseburgers she devoured and raved about were really veggie burgers.''_

 _''Veggie burgers aren't burgers,'' Dinah says, lip curled in disgust. ''They're lies.''_

 _''Yes, exactly. Thank you!'' He cocks his head at her. ''How does your body feel about red meat?''_

 _She puckers her lips thoughtfully, drumming her fingers on her knee. ''It feels pretty good about it. I love a nice, juicy steak.'' She pulls her lips back into a grin. ''The bloodier the better.'' She says it in a strangely seductive voice. Seven years ago, that would have been enough for him. Now he just thinks she's a little too into her steaks._

 _''Great,'' he says. ''So you're not one of those hipster vegans?''_

 _She looks offended at the mere suggestion. ''Fuck no.'' She pauses, considering. ''I do have an egg allergy,'' she admits._

 _''Noted.''_

 _''Also, I don't drink coffee.''_

 _''That's fucked up.'' And definitely not Laurel. She lived off coffee. She once seriously asked him if coffee IVs were possible. ''Oh, hey,'' he snaps his fingers. ''Have you ever had shawarma?''_

 _''No.''_

 _''It's delicious. Laurel was never a big fan. Whenever she wanted Indian food for dinner, she got what she wanted but whenever I suggested shawarma, she'd say something like 'I think I'm in the mood for Thai' or 'you don't order mine right' or 'you know I'm not a fan of tahini.' Shit, they have other sauces! And if she already knew she wanted Thai, why did she even ask for my opinion?!''_

 _Dinah looks grudgingly amused by his impassioned rant. She's got her head lowered, teeth sunk into her lower lip to hide her smile, and she's peering up at him through her eyelashes. ''What a heartless wench.''_

 _He can't tell if that was meant to be a joke or to get a rise out of him but either way, he ignores it. ''One time,'' he says, ''she actually burst into tears and said 'if you love stupid fucking shawarma so much, why don't you just go marry it?' In all fairness, she was pregnant, five days overdue, and she was already pissed at me for breathing too loudly, but,'' he shakes his head. ''Food. It was our biggest relationship problem. I mean,'' he frowns deeply and props his hands up on his hips. ''What kind of disaster pizza is mushroom and olive? There's not even any meat on it.''_

 _Dinah looks like she hates herself for finding him amusing. But she does find him amusing. He can tell. She's softening. Letting her guard down. He needs to take advantage of that. ''I'm surprised you two weren't divorced already with problems like that.''_

 _He lets himself laugh that the joke before carefully prodding, ''Come on, Courtney Love. I can tell you're hungry.''_

 _She falters momentarily, but straightens quickly. She folds her arms over her chest and tosses him an easy scowl. ''I'm not eating with you.''_

 _''Why? What do you think I'm going to do to you?''_

 _''Poison me.''_

 _He steps closer to her, spreading his arms out. ''Pat me down. Check for poison. You won't find any. I'm not armed.''_

 _She doesn't budge. She does turn her nose up at him. ''I don't need your help.''_

 _He shrugs his shoulders once more. ''Suit yourself. I'm starving, so I'm going to go get something to eat.'' He plucks his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and fixes them over his eyes to block out the bright summer sun. ''If I'm such a non-threat, you should have no problem joining me. But that's up to you. No skin off my back.'' He gives her a sarcastic mock salute and then turns to leave. ''I'll see you, Dee,'' he calls over his shoulder. ''Enjoy dumpster diving for your next meal.''_

 _He gets about five steps. Five sauntering steps and then he hears her cautious voice call out to him, ''Is shawarma really that good?''_

 _He stops, a thrum of victory starting low in his gut. He gives it a second, smiling slowly, and then he turns around._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

Dean shoves through the door into the brisk air and sunlight. All of his muscles feel sore and pulled tight and his head is throbbing. He's about 75% sure his hearing is fully functional once again, but he can't be entirely sure. His whole body hurts. He feels like he's been hit by a car. He doesn't think he's concussed but he does feel a little out of it. It's hard to tell if that's because he's injured or because he is severely out of his depth. He'd rather it was a concussion. He hates being out of his depth.

A sharp whistle from behind him catches his attention and he sighs heavily, tilting his head up to look at the blue sky. One minute. One goddamn minute to regroup. That's all he's asking for.

No such luck.

He pushes away the tension and the aches and pains and turns to the end of the alley where Sam and Cas are waiting for him. He doesn't hesitate, even though he wants to, striding towards them quickly.

Cas pulls his attention away from the trunk as Dean approaches, a look of genuine concern crossing his face.

Sam keeps his concern a little more lowkey, pushing off the Impala with a sigh. ''Oh, what the hell?''

''What?''

''You look...'' Cas pauses. He pauses long enough for Dean to raise his eyebrows and Sam to look over at him with that familiar _are you having a stroke_ frown on his face. ''...Ruffled.''

That's one way to put it. Dean releases a breath and stuffs his hands in his pockets. ''Just for the record,'' he says. ''My wife has superpowers.''

Neither of them look especially surprised by that. Given that they've just come from the first blast zone, they really shouldn't be. They also don't look that awestruck by the revelation. Dean feels strangely offended by that. Obviously, there's a big element of fear with this brave new world but Laurel has _superpowers_. Do they not find that at least a little bit awesome? He knows he's biased but - come on!

''Okay,'' Sam says. ''Good to know.''

Dean nods and then says once more, putting more emphasis on the word, '' _Superpowers_.''

''We get it,'' says Sam. ''You secretly run a Black Canary tumblr page and you're excited to have new things to post about. Do you think you could fanboy later?''

''What the fuck is tum - ''

''This new power of hers,'' Cas cuts in smoothly. ''Is it - ''

''Almost exactly like Dinah's,'' Dean finishes for him. ''Except Laurel has way less control. Believe me when I say it packs a punch.'' He grimaces, moving a hand up to rub at the back of his neck awkwardly. ''Coincidentally,'' he begins, hesitantly, ''so does Sara.''

''Sara?'' Sam furrows his brows. ''Wait, what? She punched you?''

''She might have. A little bit.''

Cas squints at him disapprovingly. ''What did you do to her?''

Dean groans in annoyance, throwing his arms out in exasperation. ''What makes you think I did something?''

''Dude,'' Sam deadpans. ''What'd you do?''

Dean sighs. ''Doesn't matter,'' he mutters. ''What did you find at the graveyard?''

Sam seems to get the hint, spinning on his heel to stride over to the trunk. Cas doesn't. He remains where he is, feet planted firmly on the ground. He studies Dean carefully, head tilted to the side. It's as unnerving as it always is to have Cas look at him like that. It's never not going to be unsettling as fuck to have someone look at him like they know him better than he knows himself. What's even more unsettling is that it's true. ''Are you sure you're all right?''

''I'm fine,'' Dean lies, but he can't look him in the eye when he says it.

Sam is hauling a dirty black duffel bag out of the trunk, unzipping it to wince down at the contents. ''Found this crap behind a tree.'' He gestures inside the bag. ''At least two sets of footprints. Perfect view of Laurel's grave.''

Dean isn't sure he wants to look in the bag. He can guess what's in it. Remnants of a makeshift altar. Candles, a bloodstained spell book, and probably a rabbit's foot or whatever the fuck else those crackpots use when they disrupt lives and fuck with the natural order of things. He's grateful Laurel's home, he is, but this was not a miracle. She's in pain and that pain is on the shoulders of whoever did this to her. Still, he peeks in the bag.

Yep. Full of witchcraft crap. All of it haphazardly shoved into the duffel bag and apparently left behind. He can still smell the faint odor of burning sage clinging to the items in the bag. He plucks a bloodied rabbit's foot out of the bag with a grimace of disgust. See, that shit just cannot be hygienic. Poor rabbit gets screwed every time. He drops the foot back in the bag and rummages around, sifting through candles, a rag soaked through with now dried blood, and a bloody knife. He eyes the knife. These people used a damn chef's knife to carve themselves up. Not some ancient ceremonial dagger. Not a pocketknife. A chef's knife. One that looks like it was part of a set. That's amateur. He pushes the candles off to one side and immediately freezes. This bag is full of blood soaked items and the only thing to turn his stomach is the duct tape, zip ties, syringes, and a vial of clear liquid. He grabs it, turning it over to read the label.

Ketamine.

A friggin' horse tranquilizer.

''She wasn't supposed to leave that cemetery on her own,'' he says. ''Was she?''

Sam clears his throat awkwardly, gently tugging the Ketamine out of his brother's hand, dropping it back into the bag. ''It doesn't look like it,'' he says, reluctantly. ''They must have gotten spooked when she - ''

''Popped out of the ground like a whack-a-mole?''

''Not how I would have phrased it. But, yeah.''

Dean steps away from the gruesome party bag of fuckery over there. He's trying to make his brain work. He's trying to act like a competent hunter, but it's hard when all he can think about is how grisly this situation is. Everything in that bag is covered in blood because some unknown coven brought Laurel back to life with some screwed up spell. And it's not looking like they did it out of the kindness of their hearts. ''They just left this all behind?''

Cas gives a derisive snort at that. ''I suspect these people aren't the most experienced.'' There is so much judgment and ire in his tone. ''We're not dealing with some all powerful coven.''

Oh, well, that's fucking comforting. A group of random morons brought Laurel back to life.

''When she crawled out,'' Sam starts, treading carefully, ''they must have realized something was wrong, so they ran.''

''Wrong,'' Dean parrots. ''Wrong how?'' Again, Sam and Cas exchange a worried look. That's getting infuriating. ''Will you two quit doing that?'' He grinds out through his teeth. ''Tell me what's going on.''

Sam doesn't say a word, sagging back against the car. He's got that familiar pinched, concerned look on his face and he's rubbing at his forehead tiredly. Cas is the one who eventually says it, coming right out and saying, ''I don't believe they meant to bring Laurel back as Laurel.'' He produces a folded piece of paper from his pocket, handing it over. ''This is part of the spell that was used. I didn't recognize it but I contacted a witch I know to see if she could tell me anything about it.''

Dean unfolds the piece of paper, giving it a cursory onceover. The edges are torn, as if it's been ripped out of a book, the ink is smudged, and there are a few droplets of blood on the paper. The words, written in looping cursive, are Latin. His Latin has never been the best and he's rusty on top of that, so he can't understand most of it but the few words he can understand are words like _rising_ and _awaken_ and shit like that. Also, it's rambly. Whoever wrote it severely lacked the ability to edit themselves. He glances up at Cas briefly. ''Did she?''

''It's not a resurrection spell,'' Cas sounds apologetic. ''It's a reanimation spell.''

Fuck.

Reanimation. He was offered that. He did everything to bring Laurel back. That includes going to witches. Several of them. None of them had been able to give her back to him. One coven of millennials in Olympia had taken pity on him and shoved a reanimation spell at him. It was mostly just to get him out of their hair, but there was sympathy too. One of the girls had told him exactly where he needed to go to get the ingredients. He almost did it too. He took the spell home and kept it in his bedside drawer. It was like a safety net. He kept it so that if he ever got desperate enough, if there was ever a moment where he just couldn't do it anymore, he would have it. Laurel kept a bottle of Pinot Noir in the garage in a box labeled 'Halloween Decorations.' He hadn't known that tidbit of information until three weeks ago. That reanimation spell was his Pinot Noir. Every now and then, he would take the piece of paper out and hold it tightly, crinkling the paper, reading and re-reading the list of ingredients and the incantation. He came close. He came so close.

But he never used the spell. Just like Laurel never drank the wine. It wouldn't have been her anyway. Reanimation isn't life. What he would have gotten back had he used the spell - It would have been something that looked like her, talked like her, walked like her, but it would not have been her. It would have been this confused, helpless... _thing_. Wandering around not quite alive but not quite dead either. It wouldn't have been able to love the way she loved. Zombies don't live. That's their whole shtick. They just exist. That wouldn't have been fair to Laurel, it wouldn't have been fair to him, and it certainly wouldn't have been fair to Mary.

Dean swallows thickly and clenches his fist around the scrap of paper. ''Reanimation,'' he says, the word bitter on his tongue. ''As in zombies?''

''In a way,'' Cas says slowly. ''It's more complicated than that. With this spell,'' he points to the piece of paper, ''the body isn't dead but the soul is gone. It's about control. It's like creating a mindless, compliant soldier.''

''She's not - ''

''I know.''

''We think something went wrong with their spell,'' Sam says. ''It would explain why they just dropped everything and ran.''

''From the looks of it, they were just trying to reanimate her body so they could - ''

''Weaponize it,'' Dean cuts Cas off. When the other two share yet another concerned look as if they think he's not emotionally stable enough to know the details, he nearly decks the both of them. ''Are we saying they _accidentally_ brought her back? How does that even happen?''

''That's the part we're lost on,'' Sam says.

''Maybe one of them had more power than the others and they didn't account for that while they were performing the spell,'' Cas suggests. ''Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe something bigger had a hand in this.''

''But why her? Why would they want to...?'' Dean trails off, stomach jolting sickeningly. Oh, fucking hell. ''Her powers,'' he utters, horrified. He turns wide eyes to Sam and Cas. ''Whoever did this wanted control of her powers.''

''That's the theory,'' Cas admits.

''Who the hell even knows about this?'' Dean bursts out. ''She didn't even know. No one else - ''

''There is one person who could have potentially known.'' Sam doesn't look at Dean as he says this. He's got his head tilted back so he can blink up at the sky. ''She does have the same powers after all. She would have to know how they're triggered.''

Dean stares blankly. It takes him a minute to feel incredulous and indignant about what Sam's implying. It's such a stupid suggestion that it literally takes his brain a minute to catch up and react because it is so damn ridiculous. ''No.'' That's all he says.

''Dean - ''

''No,'' he barks out shortly. ''That's - No.'' He shakes his head vehemently. ''There is no way she could have orchestrated this. Are you kidding me? You want to pin this on Dinah? She's locked away in the pipeline.''

''But she wasn't always,'' Sam insists, pushing off the car. ''She got out, right? How long was she free and all on her own before you caught up with her?''

''You did say she was a con woman long before she got her powers,'' Cas reminds him. ''Isn't it possible she could have set all this into motion back in August? It's a long con, is it not? If she has people working for her, she wouldn't need to lift a finger.''

''Yes, but she'd still have to be controlling the con,'' Dean says shortly. ''I know that. I've conned people before. It took me two months to convince them to let her have music in her cell,'' he says. ''There's no way she can pull this off from where she is and she couldn't have planned all this in twenty four hours. And why? What would her motive be? Why would she want to bring Laurel back?'' He crosses his arms over his chest. ''Dinah doesn't do a damn thing unless it helps her. How does this help her?''

''Dean, she knows what these powers do,'' Sam says. He's using that unintentionally condescending tone of voice that he's so fond of. It's not helping. Dean knows the kid is stressed out and tired but they're _all_ stressed out and tired. That doesn't mean they all get to throw out bullshit scenarios that don't make a lick of sense. ''You said it yourself,'' Sam says, voice softer this time. ''Laurel's scream is exactly like Dinah's. Only less controlled. Which makes it more dangerous. If Dinah can get some human puppet with superpowers programmed to be loyal to her and only her then she can get that person to break her out. Who better to do that than someone with powers she knows how to use?''

''That's not - ''

''It also could have been a distraction tactic,'' Cas muses, eyebrows furrowed thoughtfully. ''Maybe she's hoping you'll be too distracted with Laurel's return to notice whatever she's planning.''

''It's sleight of hand,'' Sam tacks on. ''We've all got our eyes on our Laurel so we don't notice the other is sneaking off to Kuwait.''

Dean uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on his hips, narrowing his eyes at them. They're not entirely off base. He has to admit that. It's not like Dinah would be opposed to doing something cruel and unusual like this. He's figured that she'd be more likely to impersonate Laurel rather than actually bring her back as part of some twisted version of the fucking Parent Trap, but maybe there is a chance she would go this far. She would probably get a kick out of conning all of these various vigilantes - most notably the people responsible for her current predicament. It's not that she _wouldn't_ do this. It's that she _couldn't_. ''The Maldives,'' he says, blurting it out before he can stop himself.

Sam blinks, looking thrown. ''...What?''

Dean shrugs. ''Dee,'' he elaborates. ''She wouldn't go to Kuwait. She would go to the Maldives.''

''Oh, I've been there,'' Cas pipes up, sounding weirdly cheerful about it.

''What?'' Dean throws him a bewildered look. ''You have? When?''

''Couple years ago. I went with Charlie. She called it a _gaycation_.''

''Cool,'' is Dean's deadpan response. ''I didn't even get a honeymoon.''

Cas does not look like he cares too much about that, offering him a shrug and a small smirk. ''I guess you should have married me when you had the chance then.''

It does manage to get a genuine smile and a tired sounding chuckle out of Dean but it's a fleeting moment of lightness that doesn't last long at all. ''Look,'' he says, sobering. ''This game of subterfuge that you think she's playing - I'm not saying she wouldn't do it,'' he admits. ''She would. But the whole thing hinges on her having people on the outside doing all the leg work for her, right?''

Sam pauses. ''I guess.''

''That's not happening,'' Dean says confidently. ''Dinah _hates_ people. She's a paranoid loner. She's only ever trusted a handful of people in her life - and most of them are dead. No way would she trust anyone but herself with any part of a con.'' This is something he is 100% sure of. Sam's theory involves her having some team of witches doing her bidding. She would never go for that. Dinah is anything but a team player. ''And hey,'' he tacks on. ''Here's another flag on the play: Laurel isn't soulless.''

There is an extended silence between the three of them. It stretches out awkwardly until Sam says, reluctantly, ''Are you sure about that?''

''Are you serious right now?''

Sam gives him what looks like a full body eye roll. He rubs his left temple in exasperation. ''Don't you think we should at least consider it? How would we know?''

''I know.''

''No, you love her. You missed her. You want this to be real. There's a difference.''

''Sam,'' Cas gives him a sharp warning.

''Laurel has a soul,'' Dean bites out. ''I've seen soulless people before.''

Sam still doesn't let up. ''But how would we know for sure?''

''Because the spell was botched, Sam! It didn't work! You just fucking said that!''

''No, I said we _think_ something went wrong. I didn't say we knew for sure.''

Dean throws his hands up and releases a long suffering sigh. He knows Sam isn't wrong. If the situation was reversed, he would be in Sam's shoes; trying to get some desperate man to at least acknowledge that this fucked up situation seems pretty damn precarious. If this were anyone else, he would be saying that as much as he doesn't want to believe it, there is still a chance that this is all wrong. But this is Laurel. It's _Laurel_. They just got her back. She hasn't even been home for a full twenty-four hours yet. He hasn't had time to take a minute with her to talk since she got her memories back. He hasn't even had a chance to breathe yet. And people are already trying to take her away from him.

''Listen to me.'' Sam sounds like he's trying to sound calm and patient but there's a clear edge of urgency to his voice. ''This isn't like when I was soulless or when Sara was soulless. This is something else. It's way more unstable. A major part of that spell is control. Someone else has it. What if it did work and someone is just controlling her? Making her manipulate us? She's different. She's off. You know that.''

''I know she's been traumatized,'' Dean snaps, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. ''I know she's exhausted, in shock, and has a history of dissociating when she's...'' He clenches his fist again, feeling jittery and uneasy with the direction this conversation is going in. ''When she's stressed.'' He never enjoys having to talk about Laurel's mental health with other people. It's not because he's ashamed or embarrassed because he's not. It's because she doesn't like talking about it with other people. She is an intensely private person, especially when it comes to her headspace.

''Even if she is herself,'' Sam starts, ''we still don't know the damage that's been done. We don't know what's going on inside of her. If she's Laurel, soul and all, then what's happening to her isn't what was supposed to happen. We have no idea how much of her was brought back, if she's in pieces, if she's dangerous. She's going to be around Mary, Dean. I don't want to take them away from each other. Not again. I'm just trying to be practical here. Don't you think we should find out if she's dangerous?''

Dean doesn't respond to Sam's question, avoiding his eyes. If he could just talk to her for a minute. He just wants to talk to her, to see her, to be with her in the quiet for just a second. He sighs and looks over at Cas. ''Do you have any divine contacts left?''

Cas raises a brow. ''You mean are there any angels left that don't hate me?''

''At the very least, are there any that hate you a little less? Maybe someone who owes you a favor?''

Cas squints at him curiously. ''You want an angel to verify her soul is intact and in place.''

''I don't need an angel to tell me that's my wife,'' Dean retorts. ''But other people do.''

''It would be an extremely painful process.''

''I know, but when she hears this she'll want the confirmation. She already doesn't trust herself. This sure as shit ain't gonna help.''

Cas doesn't respond for a long moment, seemingly pondering the request. ''I might know someone who would be willing to help,'' he says. ''I don't know where he is exactly but I know he's here on this earth. I can try to get in touch with him.''

''Good. That's - Thanks.'' Dean lets out a heavy breath and draws away from both of them, making his way over to a crate in the alley and sinking onto it tiredly. He scrubs a hand over his face and tries to wake himself up. Usually this is the part where he would make an _I'm too old for this shit_ joke and then push through it to get the job done. This time is different. It's not that he's too old or too tired. It's that he's scared. He keeps running through everything that has just been piled onto him and it's a lot. This is not easy to wade through. None of this is. He's steadfast in his belief that Dinah had nothing to do with this. He does understand why they would think of her but this isn't her style. It's all the other crap that feels like a heavy weight on his shoulders.

He has been with Laurel for the better part of a decade now. They have a child together. A home. A marriage. A life. A good one - for the most part. They built all of this together. Where she goes, he will follow. It's not even a question.

He's watched her go through so much pain over the years. He's watched her suffer and struggle, both emotionally and physically. He has felt helpless more times than he can count. It's just never been like this before. He has never been able to fix her. He's tried but love can't cure mental illness or heal trauma. He couldn't duct tape her back together then and he can't do it now. But he could hold her steady. He could rub her temples, hold her hand, get her an icepack, and stitch up her wounds so neat and tidy that she was barely left with a scar. He got her into treatment the second she asked for help after her suicide attempt, went to couples counselling with her, wrangled Mary alone while she was detoxing and healing in the hospital, handled her family and his without a single complaint. He did the best he could. That's just what you do when your spouse needs help. Maybe he could never fix, but he could _help._

It's easy to hold an icepack to bruised knuckles or give her a day in bed, free of all responsibilities other than cuddling their daughter and binge watching Netflix. It's something she's willing to do for him so it's easy to return the favor.

This is not easy.

He doesn't know how to help her now. A day of Netflix isn't going to help. He can't get her into treatment, he can't argue his way into an emergency therapy appointment, he can't encourage her to call her sponsor. There is nowhere she can go for help except to him and he doesn't know how to do this all alone. He can't help control these powers, he doesn't know how to help her navigate this level of trauma, and he has no idea how to tell her about any of this. It's going to hurt like hell. How could it not? How do you tell someone you love that their miracle is not a miracle? This wasn't divine intervention. It wasn't some dramatic act of God. It was never about love or mercy. It was about greed and selfishness. They meant to bring her body back to destroy, not to live. This isn't a miracle. It's just more suffering. Now he has to tell her that.

Love is a strange and terrifying thing. It's sharper than it looks. It's stranger than it seems. It wrestles your heart up into your throat, down to the pit of your stomach, until you can feel it everywhere. Love, for him, has always had teeth, and he has spent most of his life bleeding. He's known that for as long as he can remember but it wasn't until he met Laurel that he faced that fact head on. She was - _is_ \- as strange and beautiful and terrifying as those three words he's so bad at saying. She saved his life. He's never been able to repay her for that.

He doesn't want to have to tell her about all of this. He doesn't want to hurt her. He doesn't want her to be scared.

''Sam,'' Cas says, breaking the silence and startling Dean into looking up. ''Why don't you head inside? I'm sure Laurel could use a friendly face right about now.''

Sam looks doubtful. ''Pretty sure she's surrounded by her sister and her friends.''

''That's a good point,'' Cas allows. And then, ''Sam, why don't you head inside because your brother needs to calm down before he goes back in there and you're only riling him up.''

''I love how I'm the bad guy here,'' Sam complains bitterly.

''I didn't say you were the bad guy. I said you were riling him up. It's a thing you two do. Frequently. It's exhausting. My brothers tried to wear you both to destroy the world and even they were less exhausting.''

''Fine. I'll go in there. But,'' he holds up a warning finger, ''if Oliver starts with me - ''

''Oliver's not going to be starting with anyone,'' Dean cuts in. ''He got the brunt of the Laurel Grenade. Apparently when she - '' he makes an exploding gesture with his hands '' - he ran towards her instead of away from her.''

Sam heaves a sigh - an understandable reaction when confronted with Oliver Queen's unapologetic stupidity - but remains otherwise unsurprised. ''How is that guy still alive?''

''You mean specific to today or in general?''

''In general.''

''Dumb luck?''

''That's a lot of dumb luck,'' Sam comments lightly. ''Personally, I'm of the opinion that we're better than him and even we've died.''

''Several times,'' Cas adds on, bluntly.

Sam bobs his head up and down. ''You've died 119 times, Dean.''

Dean, absently nodding along with what they're saying, stops suddenly and looks up, frowning. ''What?''

''Tuesday,'' Sam says darkly.

''Oh,'' Dean nods again. ''Tuesday.'' He tosses a look at Cas. ''We don't talk about Tuesday.''

Sam seems incredibly reluctant to leave. Dean's not sure if his reluctance to leave is because he doesn't want to deal with Robin Hood and his Merry Men or because he feels bad about the way this conversation went. He sticks around long enough for Cas to send him one of those furrowed eyebrows look, and then he turns around and leaves.

Dean rests his elbows on his knees, hands steepled together. It's been a long day. This brand new thing that Laurel can do - If it's anything like what Dinah can do, and he knows that it is, then she now holds the power to kill people and to singlehandedly bring down buildings without breaking a sweat. Only she didn't. If she truly had no control over that scream, everyone in that bunker would be dead. They're not. Even terrified and confused, she did manage to hold back. That has to be a good sign.

''Dean.'' Cas sounds apologetic. He takes a seat on another crate next to him. ''He wasn't trying to upset you. He was just - ''

''I know,'' Dean interrupts, harsher than intended. ''I know what he was doing. He was right.'' He doesn't lift his head, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. He looks at his wedding ring.

He and Laurel don't have matching wedding bands. They didn't even have rings at all until three months into their marriage when they managed to scrape the money together. Laurel's engagement ring didn't cost much. It was just a matter of getting it resized. A Drake family heirloom given to him by Richard and Beatrice about a year into his relationship with Laurel.

''Bea,'' he'd said, when he opened the box she had thrown at his head. ''You askin' me to marry you?''

''She's out of your league, kid,'' Richard had grumbled from his seat by the window, without even looking up from his book.

''Do not,'' Beatrice said, pointing an arthritis ridden but very intimidating finger at him, ''mess this up. We want our girl to be happy. You make her happier than she's ever been. And also,'' she wagged the finger again, ''I want great grandbabies. Preferably before I die.''

It's a nice ring. Antique. Rose gold with one modest sized diamond and then an intricate vine-like design with a bunch of little diamonds. He's not the best person to ask about it, but Laurel can give you the whole history. It means a lot to her. He kept it with him for months, too chicken shit to pull the trigger and propose.

Eventually, she beat him to the punch.

One night, after she had rolled off him, while he was still trying to catch his breath, she turned to him and asked, bluntly, ''So you gonna lock this shit down or what, bro?''

The natural response to that, after he had stopped laughing, was, ''Sure, why not?''

And then they high fived.

He gave her the ring the next morning over breakfast and she cried all over her avocado toast. There were better ways to propose, but it fit them.

Her wedding ring is where most of the money went. Her wedding ring is where all of the money went. It's platinum, which is pricey, and it's an eternity band, which is literally just a circle of fucking diamonds. They blew the budget on that one. Even with the deal they were given. She hadn't wanted to buy it. She insisted that it was too much and that she would be happy with a plain sterling silver or titanium ring but he had seen the look on her face when she tried it on. He couldn't give her much, but he wanted to be able to give her that damned eternity band. His ring was the cheapest. It's not like it's a piece of crap or anything like that. It's a 14k yellow gold plain band. It's classic.

Laurel used to tell him that they could upgrade his ring for their anniversary but he wasn't interested then and he's not interested now. He likes his ring. It's the one they picked out together. The one she put on his finger because ''tradition, Dean.'' It's weird how a hunk of metal can become so important. It's a piece of him now. It is something so intrinsically tied to who he is that he doesn't feel like himself when he's not wearing it.

When the six month mark came along and people started to gently nudge him in the direction of things like healing and moving on, he went through a brief period of thinking they were right. Sam carefully asked him about Laurel's rings, gently suggesting that maybe putting them away was the first step. Dee bluntly informed him that what he really needed was to get ''well and truly fucked.'' One of the mothers of one of Mary's classmates at preschool - a widow herself - asked him out for coffee.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do, he didn't know what felt right to him because nothing felt right, so he just...went along with it. He took the chain with Laurel's wedding rings off, placed it on his bedside table, and went out for coffee with Tina. He even kissed her at the end of the coffee date. But it was awkward and they were both still wearing their wedding rings and it was just... Not the right time. For either of them. Tina's great. She's a little caustic, which is probably why they get along, and she consistently encourages her twins to be nice to Mary. She's just not Laurel, and he's not her husband.

When he got home that night, he looked down at his wedding ring and made a split second decision to move it from his left hand to his right hand. He thought that would be easier than taking it off completely. It was not. The second that ring was off his finger, it was like he couldn't breathe. It felt cruel and disrespectful, like he was erasing her. It felt like losing her all over again. He felt off balance and unsteady without it. He doesn't want to feel off balance again. He doesn't want to have a reason to take off his ring again.

Maybe it's selfish to be thinking about that right now when Laurel is scared and hurt, but he has never pretended to be some patron saint of selflessness. He doesn't want to lose Laurel again. He doesn't want her to be in pieces. He wants her to be here, whole again, so they can have the life they were supposed to have. The life they would have had if April 6th had never happened.

He draws in a shaky breath and looks over at Cas. ''I know you didn't just send Sam away to give me a breather.''

Cas doesn't answer. He doesn't even look at him. Not for a long time. ''There are no guarantees to magic,'' he says finally, turning his gaze over to Dean. ''There's always a price to pay. We both know that.'' He looks at Dean with his piercing blue eyes, lips pinched, and this look of apology in his body language. ''This isn't an exception.''

''I didn't think it was,'' Dean admits.

''When a spell is mishandled and damaged to this extent,'' Cas goes on, ''it becomes unstable.''

''Unstable,'' Dean echoes.

''Spells are fragile things,'' says Cas. ''And this one was poorly done by someone with horrible and selfish intentions. It was done carelessly and cruelly. There are repercussions to that.'' ''What kind of repercussions?''

''Think of it like a tether. This spell is what's keeping Laurel tied to this world and it's battered and fragmented. The tether is fraying. If the spell breaks completely, everything it's done will be erased. Which means - ''

''Laurel dies.''

Cas' lips thin out. His silence is confirmation enough. He admits, softly, reluctantly, ''Yes.''

Dean can't even pretend to be surprised by that. It's not like the thought of losing her hasn't been in the back of his mind since he opened that door. He looks down at his wedding ring again and, this time, he thinks of Mary. Seven months ago, he had to tell her that her mom was gone, that she wasn't coming home. He remembers that moment. He remembers everything about it. It's stained into him. He remembers the way her room looked that morning, the pajamas she was wearing, the toys on the floor, how everything was still and quiet except for the sound of the birds outside. They were unusually loud that day and he remembers the soft sort of grief in that. Even the birds were crying.

No matter what happens here, happy ending or not, he will never forget the earth shattering pain of that moment. Everything else he's been through, every bit of pain and trauma pales in comparison to the day he had to look his little girl in the eye and destroy her. He's never going to be able to get away from the look on her face, confused and devastated, and the sound of her tiny heartbroken voice sobbing out, ''But I don't want her to be gone!''

That will not be happening again.

''Then we fix it,'' he declares boldly, rising to his feet. ''We stabilize the spell. We can do that, right? There has to be a way to do that.''

''It might be possible to find a witch who can strengthen the spell,'' Cas suggests, after a pause. He's still having a hard time looking at Dean. It's like he can't stand to see the hopeful and determined look on his friend's face. ''But that wouldn't be a permanent solution. It would just buy her some time. I...'' He stops talking, dragging his eyes up to Dean. ''I don't know how to fix this. Her life is tied to this spell. I'm sorry.''

Try as he might, Dean can't quite muster up enough strength and resolve to even haul off and hit something right now. ''How long? How long does she have?''

''There's no way to tell,'' says Cas, regretfully. ''It could be anywhere from weeks to months. A year or two if we're lucky.''

''Are there signs?'' Dean clears his throat. ''Symptoms? Things to watch for?''

''I don't know,'' Cas sighs. ''If her soul starts to separate from her body, there could be personality changes. Confusion, maybe. Anger. Fugue states. There could be physical symptoms but I... I can't be sure. I'm sorry. Magic is - It's paid for in blood. It's always got to be blood.''

''And if the spell breaks completely?'' Dean asks. ''What would happen then? Would she just...'' He swallows painfully. ''Would she just drop dead?''

Cas does not look like he wants to answer that. ''She might. She might just go to sleep and not wake up. This isn't something that I can... I don't have all the answers. This is a rare event.''

''This is a fuck up,'' Dean snaps. ''This is happening because someone botched a spell.''

''Yes.''

''Laurel is a walking time bomb because of _incompetence_ ,'' he snarls, disgusted. ''And you know what? I don't give a shit. I was with her when she died once. I'm not letting her die again. I don't care what I have to do. Witches, angels, demons, I'll do it all.''

''Okay.'' Cas practically leaps to his feet, moving to grasp onto Dean's arm. ''Okay, we'll fix this. We'll find a way. We won't let her go again.'' His voice is unusually soft and placating. He looks worried.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and tries to breathe through the ache in his throat. ''Have you told anyone else about this?''

Cas shakes his head. ''Just you.''

Dean straightens up, considering that. He looks in the direction of the entrance to the bunker, where Laurel is waiting for him; disoriented, exhausted, and terrified of the thing inside of her. He clenches his jaw, and he makes a terrible decision. ''Good,'' he says shortly, snapping his attention back to Cas. ''Don't. Everything you've just told me - Don't tell anyone else.''

Cas stares at him but quickly smoothes out the stunned expression on his face into an unreadable one. ''Do you think that's wise?''

Well, no. ''Look, Laurel's in rough shape right now,'' Dean tells him. ''We have to tell her about the witches and what they did to her. That'll scare her enough. I don't want to add to that by telling her she's dying.''

''I understand that you want to protect her,'' Cas says. ''But this is her body. Don't you think she has a right to know what's going on with it?''

''That's not - It doesn't - Listen - '' Dean sputters uselessly for a helpless minute, trying to scrounge up a response to that. He can't find one. Cas is right. There's no way around that. There is no defense to this. He's right. It's as simple as that. Dean is not in a place to care about right or wrong at the moment. All he can think about is protecting her from more hurt. ''We're going to find a way to fix this,'' he finally manages to get out, adamant but shaky. ''We'll find a witch to repair the spell and she'll never have to know.''

''And if we can't do that?''

''Not an option.''

''Dean - ''

''No!'' The harsh tone of his voice doesn't seem to faze Cas much, but Dean still regrets it instantly. ''I need time to figure this out without stressing her. I can fix this. Cas,'' he's begging now. ''Please. Just give me some time before we tell her. Let me try. We'll keep an eye on her. I'll watch for anything weird. We can clean this up discreetly.''

''Even if we do find a way to fix this,'' Cas sighs, ''do you really plan on never telling her?''

Dean doesn't have an answer to that.

Cas looks down at the ground and takes in a breath. He doesn't say no. He looks like he's regretting every choice he's ever made that has led him here to this particular moment in time. But he doesn't say no. ''All right,'' he acquiesces, though he sounds reluctant. ''We'll try it your way. But,'' he holds up a hand, ''if we can't find a way to fix this - ''

''Cas - ''

''If we can't find a way to fix this,'' Cas says again, sternly, ''before she starts showing symptoms then we have to tell her.''

Dean pauses, teeth sinking into his lower lip. ''Deal,'' he nods. He makes sure to make it sound like he's telling the truth.

Cas sighs again, sounding tired. He never used to sound tired. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and stares, searching and unblinking, at Dean.

Dean can't seem to move under the scrutiny. Finally, he manages to look away. ''What?'' He mutters, gruff. ''Why are you looking at me like that?''

Cas doesn't answer for a second before saying, somehow both blunt and careful at the same time, ''You need to get some rest.''

Dean huffs out a laugh. ''Yeah,'' he agrees, wry smirk twisting onto his lips. ''That would be nice, wouldn't it?''

.

.

.

Mary's birth was difficult.

The entire pregnancy had been an unexpectedly intense challenge both physically and emotionally, but the actual labor and delivery part of it had been complete and utter misery. Laurel went eight days overdue, suffered through two shitty weeks of torturous stop and start contractions, sixteen hours of active labor, and she wound up pushing for nearly three hours. It was _unreal_. She tried pushing in every position imaginable but that baby did not want to come out until she was good and ready. She had, at the last second, decided to roll over and come out face up. Just to hammer it into their heads that she had inherited both her mother's stubbornness and her father's flair for the dramatics. Four years later and it still remains, without a doubt, the most intensely painful experience she has ever been through.

The arrow to the lung had hurt less.

She had not handled the rough labor gracefully. That is putting it mildly. The baby handled it fine, Dean and Alex were both calm, steady, and supportive, but Laurel was a wreck. She spent the entire duration of labor scared out of her mind, crying, and telling them that she couldn't do it. Despite all the research she had done, all the books and articles she had devoured, all the mommy forums she had lurked, all those stupid pregnancy apps she had downloaded, she wound up being completely thrown off guard by the overwhelming intensity of childbirth.

It was bad. She was just this sweaty, exhausted mess, sobbing and roaring her way through contractions and literally physically clinging to Dean like a lifeline. It was horrible, it was embarrassing, and she doesn't like to think too much about it.

Really, the only good memory she has is Mary being placed on her chest. Feeling her warm weight and seeing her little face for the first time. That was the only thing that even got her through the horror that was labor: she wanted to see her daughter's face more than she wanted the pain to stop. When she first came out, Mary was this gooey, pissed off, wriggly, alien looking creature that Laurel had absolutely no idea what to do with. She had no idea how to hold her, she was so out of it from the birth, and there was still a part of her that was wondering what the hell she was thinking.

But then she looked at her. She looked at her stubborn alien potato, she saw her eyes, and it was like the whole world stopped. It was still terrifying and she was still in shock, but it was amazing. She remembers looking down at the baby's tiny eyes, her tiny scrunched up nose, her tiny hands balled up into tiny fists and thinking, _This is my daughter_. It was a surreal feeling. It was like there was an explosion of fireworks in her chest. It was one of those _oh, so this is what it feels like_ moments where you suddenly understand devotion in a way you hadn't before. ''Oh,'' she had mumbled, tears running down her cheeks. ''Oh, little girl, it's you. I know you. I _know_ you.''

She's okay with remembering that moment. She doesn't mind remembering the night she wept and blubbered out, ''There's your face. Baby, oh my god, there's your face. You're so beautiful. You're perfect.'' She loves that memory. She's kept it with her since the moment it happened. The night she met her girl. The night she kissed her baby's soft and sticky forehead and whispered, ''I love you, I love you, my girl'' because she wanted that to be one of the first things her daughter heard. It's a good memory.

Everything else about that experience can, frankly, go suck it.

With that said, there is one other moment that she's thought about a lot over the years. Not because it was a good moment but because she's never been able to make sense of it. It was about two hours into pushing. She was fading fast, whimpering pitifully and mumbling that she couldn't do it anymore, and Dean and Alex had both started coddling her more than ever. He kept calling her _baby_ \- which he only ever does when she's in rough shape - and Alex had upped her motivational speaker voice to, like, a ten. They were bringing her pillows and ice chips, assuring her that she was doing a great job, and reminding her to rest as much as she could in between contractions. She was so tired that she could barely hold her own head up, in so much pain that she couldn't see straight, her stubborn baby would not vacate the damn premises, and there were all these complicated emotions building up in her chest and throat. She was hot, drenched in sweat, scared, and she was seriously regretting her decision to decline her grandmother's offer to be there with her during the birth. It was misery. She was incoherent, wrung out, helpless, and then, quite suddenly, there was this strange and overwhelming feeling of Sara.

She's never been able to figure out why it happened. Maybe it was just how emotional it was. Maybe it was because she had been thinking about Sara a lot during her pregnancy, full of grief because she thought her sister and her daughter were never going to meet. Maybe it was something else. All she knows is that in that moment, she swore she felt her. It was as she was right there with her. Even back then, when Sara was five years gone and seemingly lost underwater, she still had her cold hands wrapped around Laurel's heart.

Sara was her number one ghost back then. She was this lingering ache in her chest that never went away. When she thought about her in that moment, already overwhelmed, she just completely broke apart. ''I want Sara,'' she had pleaded. ''I want my sister. Please, please, I want my sister.''

She doesn't know what had made her think about her, but there she was. This gorgeous memory in her head, laughing and twirling and dancing. Feeling her presence hadn't helped to quell the rising panic knotted up in her chest that would soon turn into a full blown panic attack, but she hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. She thought of Sara, her first girl, forever young and wild, so beautiful and so alive - all the things Laurel never was - slipping under the dark water forever and she just thought, _She is not here anymore. She left me. She left me here all alone._

Then she thought of her daughter, tiny and innocent, struggling to make her way into the big scary world, and she lost it. It was terrifying to think about bringing her into a world that could take her away so easily like it did with Sara. She was no longer afraid her baby wouldn't come out. She was afraid she would.

''I don't want her to come out,'' she'd wailed. ''I don't want her to come out!''

''Uh, well, Laurel...'' Alex had said slowly, eyebrows furrowed, no doubt confused by the abrupt change in Laurel's demeanor. ''She has to come out.''

Laurel, hysterical and completely out of it, was having none of that. ''No.'' She shook her head, eyes wide. She reached out blindly for Dean's hand and got his shirt instead, curling her fingers around the fabric. ''No, please, no. She has to stay in. She's safe in there. I don't...'' She broke off in a breathless sob, looking up at Dean with pleading eyes. ''I don't want her to leave me. I don't want her to leave me like Sara did.''

Dean and Alex had exchanged this quick, worried glance. They both looked so pitying. Neither of them had known what to say to that.

Still, Dean tried. ''Okay.'' He untangled her hand from his shirt and threaded his fingers through hers. ''Listen to me,'' he leaned in close to her, brushing stringy hair out of her flushed, sweaty face. ''She's not going to leave you, Laurel. And we're not going to leave her. I swear. I swear to you, baby. But she needs to come out.''

''No. No, no, no...''

''Yes,'' he said firmly. ''She does.''

She shook her head adamantly, trying to figure out how to coherently inform him that they had made the wrong choice to bring a child into their messy lives in a half ruined world like a couple of naive idiots. ''We're so stupid,'' was all she managed to mumble out. ''Dean, we're so stupid.''

''Well,'' he seemed to mull that over for half a second. ''Probably, yeah. Is that relevant right now?''

''I don't want her to go.''

''Honey,'' he whispered, mopping her face with a cold cloth. ''Where would she go?''

It was way too scary out here. Everything hurt. She hurt. She hurt all the time and she had never been able to stop the pain or even make it better. She hadn't wanted her child to have to witness that. She didn't want her to feel it. ''I love her,'' she'd confessed tearfully, in a very small voice. ''I love her so much. I don't want her to go.''

It was the first time she had said that. She wasn't sure why. She had felt that love since the moment she saw that tiny bean looking thing on the ultrasound screen. She had just been afraid to say it out loud. She told Sara that she loved her all the time. Where did her love get Sara? What good came from it? All life had taught her, would continue to teach her, was that when she loved someone, they left her.

She hadn't wanted her daughter to leave her.

That's the thing about life. That's the thing about _her_ life. It's all a big joke to the universe. Someone out there derives too much sick pleasure from her pain to allow her to live an uncomplicated life. Irony is a cruel thing and it's not something she's ever been able to get away from.

Mary was born in a flurry of screams - both hers and her mother's - and she has never once left. Sara came home to her, a little darker and a little broken, but still undeniably her. Even Thea wound up moving in with them. It felt like she was finally getting a taste of what it felt like to be at peace for the first time. She had all her girls with her. She had her husband. She had the Black Canary.

And then she ended up being the one who left.

It happened suddenly, without warning, stealing her goodbyes, stripping away her agency, her dignity, and her life. She thought she knew what cruelty was before, but she had no idea. Not until that night.

She knows it's ridiculous to blame herself for what happened. She was murdered. She is a murder victim. It's not like she had a choice. That doesn't make her feel less guilty. She knows what it feels like to be the one left behind. She knows the pain in having to stay when someone you love leaves you. She does have a certain amount of culpability, doesn't she? She's not completely free of blame. She is the one who put on that suit. She threw herself into dangerous situations every night, knowing that there were incredible risks to what she was doing. Whether her intentions were righteous or not, death was on the table the moment she picked up that mask and she knew that. She made her choices and those choices led her to that prison on April 6th and that arrow in her lung. Darhk killed her. That's not up for debate. But maybe she let him. Maybe she could have done more to prevent it. Maybe she...

Laurel sighs heavily and sinks further into the passenger seat of the Impala. She rakes a shaky hand through her hair. No. No, she was not _asking for it_. That is not how it works.

It's just that one of the complications of getting her memory back is that she now knows how to recognize that no one is the way they were back in April. No one looks the same. No one acts the same. No one is how she left them. They carry shadows now. There are ghosts weaving in and out, exhaustion gnawing away at them, and everyone looks so unsteady. She is not arrogant enough to blame all of that on her untimely demise but some of it is because of her. How can she not feel guilty about that? She put the people she loves through unimaginable pain. She left them all behind to wade through the agony of her absence. She forced them to clean up her mess.

And she is going to do it again.

Laurel licks her lips and looks down at her hands. They still hurt. Her whole body hurts. Her fingers, her arms, her legs, her back, her head, her stomach. Every part of her throbs and aches like one giant laceration or bruise; the leftovers from her fight with her casket. She can't blame it all on her grave escape. Her bones feel too heavy. Her muscles, her blood, her skin. Everything feels heavy, like she's sinking under the weight of it all. It's different here. This world rocks and tilts, and she can't regain her balance. It takes time to come back.

Her throat hurts too.

She's not sure she can blame that one solely on her resurrection.

Here is what she knows: They will come for her. The people who did this to her. The witches. They will come for their weapon. This bizarre thing that's been asleep inside of her for her entire life, nestled in her blood, her cells, every piece of her, waiting for the right moment to pounce. If these witches went to all this trouble to bring her back to gain control of a power they somehow knew she had then she doesn't see them letting a pesky soul get in the way of whatever plans they've concocted.

She looks out the window at the dark, cloudy sky. The wind has picked up, whipping at the hair and the jackets of the people exiting the Target. There is a familiar feeling in the air; an electric calm, a low rumbling somewhere in the distance. There's a storm coming. She looks in the direction of the store entrance, craning her neck in an attempt to spot her husband.

She should leave. She should run. That is the only thing that she's been able to think about since she was told about all of this. She should run and never stop. At least not until she's drawn this coven of devious morons far enough away from her family. It's a solid plan. It makes sense. She's dangerous. Even without trying to be, she is dangerous. She shouldn't be around Mary.

She should scoot over into the driver's seat and make a break for it. The only problem with that plan is Dean. First of all, it's never a good idea for anyone to steal his car. Second of all, he would never let her go. If she runs, he will follow. He will follow her to the end of the earth and back again if she makes him. He will do anything to protect her. Even if that means he has to die trying. She knows him too well to think differently.

She slouches further down in her seat and looks up at the roof of the car. She takes in a deep breath, inhaling through her nose, holding it, and then exhaling slowly through her mouth the way all those relaxation apps taught her. It doesn't help, it's never helped, but she needs something to concentrate on that isn't...everything else.

She feels like she's had all of her energy drained out of her. It's not just the seizure that took everything out of her, it's the memories. Her life was a rough ride and having to remember that is a lot. She thought remembering would make this easier. It hasn't. For everyone else, it's been seven months since her death. It hasn't been that long for her. To her, it has only been hours, a day at most, since the arrow. She can still feel it, the sharp point of it pushing into her, tearing through her suit, splitting apart her flesh, sinking into her lung. She can still feel the way her lungs filled with fluid, the way she choked on her own blood.

She still feels sedated. Her body feels heavy and like it's not all hers. It's a sudden sinking, slipping sensation. The way it feels to fall when the bottom drops out without warning. She remembers feeling this way in that hospital bed, dropping in and out. She remembers Dean. She remembers the doctor and nurses. She remembers wanting so desperately to see Mary.

She remembers Death. Not the event itself, but the man. Seven months ago but also just last night, she was standing in an eerily empty hospital hallway in her hospital gown. There was no pain, no blood, and no grogginess left over from the anesthesia. There was just her and a calm, frail old man who was neither frail nor a man. She kept trying to run from him, sprinting down darkened and abandoned hospital hallways, but there was nowhere to go. She kept trying to get back to Dean but every door she ran through only led her back to Death.

''You don't have to be afraid of me,'' he had said softly, sitting beside an empty hospital bed, waiting. ''I am not something to fear.''

''You want to take me away,'' she countered, desperately trying to find a way to fight back, to go home.

He shrugged, unbothered by the accusation. He remained impassive, even as an image of her lifeless body on the hospital bed flickered. ''We all go away in the end,'' he said. ''This is the way of the world. Did you think your story would end differently?'' He stood up and she stubbornly backed away from him. ''Sooner or later,'' he told her, ''we will all have to leave.''

The world had filtered back in then. She remembers that - the moment it all came rushing back. It wasn't an empty room anymore. There was life bustling outside of the room, sirens wailing in the distance, a body in the bed that used to belong to her, and Dean was slouched in the chair beside the bed, looking at it. None of it had been real to her until she saw his face. She could have convinced herself it was all a nightmare but she couldn't deny the look in his eyes. She remembers crying as soon as she saw him. Pleading with him to look at her, to see her, to please hear her. More than anything else, she remembers being afraid.

''I know you may not believe this now,'' Death had told her, ''but I am not a punishment. I am a result of being alive. And you, Ms. Lance, were _alive_. Look out the window. Look at all the light you've taken with you.''

She had looked out the window at her city, the lights, the skyscrapers, the stillness and the quiet of the night. She looked at her husband, by her side, holding her limp hand. Her left hand felt cold without her rings. ''But I - I was just starting to feel it,'' she'd protested weakly. ''I waited so long to feel alive and now I have to go?'' Her voice had trembled dangerously and she had to press her lips together to keep from sobbing. ''How is that fair?''

''This isn't about being fair,'' he said. ''You have lived a difficult life, Laurel. Don't you think it's time for you to rest now? Wouldn't peace be a welcome relief?''

She swallowed. ''I didn't ask for peace.''

''You were a hero,'' Death told her, plainly. ''You saved countless lives. You fought for justice, even when they told you not to. You did what you believed was right. You had a marriage. You had a daughter. Your life had meaning. Is that not enough?''

She looked back at Dean, sitting there with his mouth pressed to the back of her hand. He didn't look like himself. It was like he had aged fifteen years in the minute it took for her to die. He looked destroyed. She hadn't been able to process the fact that it was the last time she was going to see him. She loved him - loves him - so much. It had been unfathomable to think that she could exist without him by her side. It still is. He's her husband. Her partner. As strange as it might be for some people to grasp, given the vast differences in their personalities, Dean Winchester is her best friend. She hadn't wanted to leave him. She certainly hadn't wanted to leave Mary.

''I wanted it to be longer,'' she admitted.

''I've been told it's not how long you live that matters,'' said Death. ''It's _how_ you live.''

''I don't want to go,'' she whispered, though it sounded more like _I don't want to be alone_.

Death nodded at her, as if he understood, as if he was truly sorry for her loss. ''Very few people do.''

If she could have stayed without the risk of turning into an angry poltergeist, she would have. She would have stayed to watch her daughter grow. Even from a distance, from the shadows, even if they couldn't see her and she had to watch Dean move on and Mary forget her, she would have stayed. It doesn't work that way. It's never worked that way.

''Laur,'' she heard Dean choke out, mumbling into her skin. ''Come on, baby,'' he pleaded. ''Don't do this. Please don't do this.''

It was the last thing she heard him say.

''I thought I wouldn't be afraid,'' she'd said, a humorless smile crossing her lips.

''My dear,'' Death said, voice soft. ''We're all afraid.''

Laurel closes her eyes. It's hard to get away from that moment. Her memories of the minutes before she died are somewhat foggy. She remembers being in that hospital bed, she remembers she was talking to Dean, and she remembers feeling weird. Everything else is gone. She remembers every second of standing in that room with Death. She would love to forget the moment she allowed herself to let go.

She nervously fiddles with her wedding rings on the chain around her neck. Normally, this is the part where she would call her sponsor. Except she doesn't have one anymore. She doesn't have a sponsor or a therapist. They all think she's dead. From what Dean told her on the way here, her death was more public than her life ever was. There was a funeral, a well-intentioned but cruel unmasking, even a statue apparently. She lost her life and then had the leftover pieces of everything she built for herself stripped from her corpse in front of an audience. There is nowhere left for her to go.

She is alone in this.

She gnaws on her bottom lip and tries to recall the words to that mantra her AA meetings started with.

 _God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference._

It's a halfhearted thing; repeating these words in her head. God won't help her. He never has before. She has to save herself. But the words, even just the repetition of mumbling them under her breath, helps. She gets through it three times and then the driver's side door opens.

''Sorry,'' Dean says as he slips into his seat. ''Didn't mean to scare you.''

She shakes her head. ''That's okay. Did you get the - ''

He produces a box from the red plastic bag. ''Contact lenses.''

''Yes,'' she breathes out, relieved. ''Finally.'' As trivial as it may sound, she completely lights up when she sees them. It's like a weight has been lifted off her chest. The contact lenses are a small thing, relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but she's hoping they'll help her feel more like herself. She's never hated her glasses. It's just that they get in the way. Putting in her contacts has been part of her normal daily routine for so long. She really needs something to feel normal right now. She curls a hand around Dean's neck, leaning in to kiss the side of his mouth as she snatches the box from him. ''Thank you.''

He accepts her glasses when she takes them off and basically tosses them at him. He doesn't say anything for the longest time, but he also can't take his eyes off of her. A lot of people have been unable to look away from her today. It's like they're worried she'll disappear if they look away. She can understand that. She's wondering the same thing. She can feel him watching her as she puts in the contact lenses. He doesn't even complain when she steals the rearview mirror for herself.

She glances over at him before she moves onto the right eye. ''What?''

''Nothing.'' His lips quirk up into a small smile. ''I remember this.''

She's not sure why that makes her feel so sad.

They had countless mornings together. She'd be rushing to put her contacts in at the last minute. He'd be calling the time out to her from the kitchen, reminding her that she had an early meeting and not to forget her coffee on the kitchen counter for the third day in a row. She was a perpetually late person. In the beginning, it was because she decided to risk being late for a morning of shower sex. More recently, it's been because her daughter demands that they all have breakfast together. They had such a good life. Despite everything, it was so normal. They're not going to have that again. Theoretically, they could work their way back to some semblance of a normal life but it's not ever going to be the same as it was.

She swallows hard and focuses on putting the last contact in. ''I remember a lot of things,'' she comments, trying to sound as light as possible. ''You, Mary, my parents, Sara and Thea, Tommy, Sam and Cas. I remember when we got married. I remember having Mary. Becoming Black Canary. Big Sur.'' A sly smirk crosses her lips and she nudges his shoulder playfully. ''Those four days in Seattle.''

He blushes at that. He actually _blushes_. Not that it surprises her. Those four days in Seattle have always had the power to do that. What a way to get to know each other. ''Seattle,'' he murmurs, eyes crinkling as his lips pull back into a grin. ''Now that was memorable.''

She smiles softly, leaning back in her seat. ''Remember when we tried to recreate it on our first anniversary? Or,'' she cocks her head to the side, ''the good parts anyway.''

''Couldn't quite manage to recreate that level of adrenaline, could we?''

''Probably the lack of near death experiences.''

He chuckles warmly, handing over her glasses. ''I know you're probably getting sick of people asking you this question,'' he starts. ''But how are you?''

She shrugs her shoulders. ''Tired, mostly. It feels like everything...'' She takes in a gulp of air. ''It feels like everything is rushing at me all at once, you know? My whole life. I remember all of it. Even the parts I...'' It's hard to explain. It feels like she's reliving it all in her head. The memories won't stop coming. It's hard to think coherently when everything is so jumbled, spinning around in her head like a dizzying mess. It's hard to pick out what's real.

Life is easy. It all happened. There's no question about it. It happened, it's happening, it will happen. She remembers her life. The afterlife, everything that happened after she took Death's hand, is harder. Nothing worked the way it works here. Time and memory are fluid in the after, neither one of them constricted by the heaviness of life, of gravity and air, of flesh, bone, and blood. It's hard to pin down those memories. To remember what happened and what didn't.

The clearest thing she can remember, the part she's going to need to tell Dean about, is that she was not alone.

She presses her lips together. She tries not to think too much about who she was with. Who she left behind when she was yanked back down here.

''When I was little,'' she says, ''I had this stuffed elephant named Gwendolyn. It was the one thing my grandfather - my dad's dad, not Richard - gave me before he died. I loved it. I took it with me everywhere for years. I didn't even care when the other kids made fun of me. I lost Gwendolyn when I was seven,'' she says. ''We searched everywhere for that elephant. Tore the house apart. The car. We looked at the park, the library, the school, everywhere we could think of but it was just like she'd disappeared into thin air. I was devastated.''

Dean doesn't say a word to that, probably because he doesn't understand the current significance of a stuffed elephant.

She fiddles with her glasses nervously. ''I know where she is,'' she says, lifting her eyes. ''I remember where I left her.''

He stares at her. ''You...'' He blinks. ''Are you serious?''

''1172 Sassafras Drive. My grandparents' old house. In the attic.'' No doubt about it. She remembers it like it was yesterday. She remembers how hot and stuffy the attic was. How nervous she was up there in the darkness, sticking close to the streaks of sunlight streaming in the one tiny grimy window and clutching Gwendolyn while Sara giggled, completely at home in the dark. ''Sara and I were playing up there. We weren't supposed to go into the attic but Sara liked to play dress up with all the old clothes. We snuck up while Mom and Dad were at work, Grandpa was asleep on the couch, and Grandma was making dinner. She thought we were playing in our room. That's where I left Gwendolyn. Up in the attic. I'm sure of it. I guess nobody thought to look up there because we weren't supposed to be there.'' She tilts her head to the side. ''I wonder if she's still up there.''

''Laurel - ''

''I also remember the night I died.'' She doesn't mean to blurt that out so abruptly but she can't take it back now. They can't just not talk about it forever. She thinks it's likely that her death might have overshadowed the other loss that happened on April 6th but it still happened and she doesn't want to pretend it didn't. ''I remember everything about that night. The prison, Darhk, the arrow, the ride to the hospital, waking up from surgery. I remember the doctor. She was nice. Quiet. The nurses were all very sympathetic,'' she says. ''You know.'' She looks right at him. ''Because of our loss.''

Judging by the way he pales and looks away from her, she's going to guess he knows exactly what she's talking about. ''We don't have to talk about that,'' he rasps out. It sounds more like he's pleading with her rather than trying to give her an out. She wonders if he even bothered to cope with it over the past seven months or if he just pushed it out of his mind and pretended it didn't hurt.

''If I hadn't remembered,'' she starts, ''would you have told me?''

His response is quick and even. ''No.''

She's not surprised by that answer. ''Why?''

''I know you,'' he says simply. ''I know you well enough to know when you're going to blame yourself for something. I was hoping you wouldn't remember.'' He looks nervous, swallowing thickly. ''You're angry, aren't you?''

Actually, no. She understands his thought process. The situation is more complicated than it seems. ''No,'' she responds. ''Truthfully, I would rather forget.'' Not that she will. She won't ever forget. She closes her eyes and thinks of the past seven months. She and Dean spent their summer vacations in very different places. He spent those seven months here, on earth, with their daughter. She spent them somewhere else, in the after, wherever that was.

With their son.

''I don't want to upset you,'' she says. ''But I need to tell you something.'' She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, taking in a deep breath before she says, quietly, ''I wasn't alone.'' She glances over at him to gauge his reaction to that. He mostly looks confused. ''Wherever I was,'' she elaborates. ''I wasn't alone there. There - There was a boy. A baby boy.'' She breathes in deeply. ''He was ours. Or he would have been anyway.''

She watches him take in a breath, and then another, and another. ''That...'' He clears his throat. ''Oh.'' He's trying way too hard not to have an emotional response to this. He's also failing spectacularly. She can see it in his eyes. ''Okay,'' his voice sounds shaky. ''What does that mean exactly?''

''I don't know,'' is her honest answer. ''I don't know if he was specifically tied to the miscarriage that night, I'm not sure it felt like he was, but he was ours. I don't know how I know that. I just do. He was made of us. He was the baby we would have had someday. Either that or he was a figment of my imagination created because I was lonely. That's also a possibility.'' She smiles wryly. ''Probably a big one. But, um,'' she swallows the lump in her throat. ''He looked,'' her voice cracks, ''so much like you. We lived a life together. I raised him. I watched him grow. I remember him. At least I think I do. I don't know if it was real. But I know he was ours and he was so amazing. I'm sorry.'' She lets out a breath, blinking furiously, looking over at him. She is trying to stay calm and not turn into a blubbering mess right now but it's so hard. ''I'm sorry we never got the chance. I'm sorry I took that away from us.''

''Laurel.'' He still sounds shaken, but he rushes to place a hand on her knee. ''You didn't take anything from us. It wasn't your fault. You know that, right? You heard the doctor. It was really early on. We had no idea about the pregnancy.''

Laurel looks down at her hands because she can't bear to look at him. Oh, she really wishes that was the truth. She picks at one of the band-aids on her hand with what's left of the fingernail on her left index finger. She doesn't tell him what she's thinking. He doesn't ask any questions about their little boy, which is surprising but also a relief. She wants to tell him everything about the time she spent with their son but her memories are so flickery right now. She's going to need some time to make sense of it.

The beast of a car roars to life and instead of asking any hard questions or talking about painful subjects, he just starts talking about stopping by Krispy Kreme for coffee and doughnuts because he knows she loves Krispy Kreme. He is so happy to have her back. Even with the looming uncertainty and the mess surrounding her return, his joy and relief is palpable. She can see it in his eyes every time he looks at her. She doesn't want to give him a reason to look at her any other way.

Which is exactly why she can't tell him the truth about the pregnancy.

That night, when the doctor broke the bad news to them, it was just assumed that she hadn't known. Because what kind of selfish bitch walks into a dangerous combat situation knowing they're pregnant, right?

She knew.

That's the truth. She hadn't gone to the doctor, but she had taken a test. She took it on April 6th, actually, while she was debating over whether or not to accept that job offer. She didn't tell Dean. She wanted to, but she was scared. She needed time to process. They had come to a tentative agreement around Christmas time last year to start trying for a second child when she turned thirty one and they had been pretty lazy with protection since his birthday, so it's not like it was something unwanted or even that unexpected. It's just that talking about something and having that something suddenly pop up are two different things. She blamed so much on stress in those last few weeks. She was sent home from work a few days before the 6th and she had just told Dean it was food poisoning. But there's really only so much fatigue and nausea one can blame on stress.

She was nervous when she saw that plus sign - scared to go through pregnancy again, anxious about having two little kids, worried about finances, kind of mopey about having to hang up her mask - but she was happy. She was excited about her life, about what was to come. She knew she was pregnant that last night. And she put that suit on anyway.

Her choice to walk into that prison, her need for one last fight, was a stupid, selfish, and disastrous decision that not only cost her their child, but her life. If she had made another choice that night, if she had just stayed home, they would be living an entirely different life.

She can't tell Dean that. She can't tell anyone that.

''You know,'' he says slowly, voice bringing her back to the present. His hands are gripping the steering wheel and he's looking straight ahead of him. ''Whether he was real or not, I'm glad you had him.'' He looks over at her with a small smile. ''I'm glad you weren't alone. Either of you. Maybe...'' He hesitates. ''Maybe, one day, you could tell me about him. When you're ready.''

She nods, throwing him a brief, watery smile. ''When I'm ready,'' she says softly, ''I'll tell you everything about him.''

They allow the conversation to drift away from the unpleasant topic to cautious small talk about whether or not she's sure she's up to seeing her dad right now and how Mary's doing in preschool. She doesn't bring it up again for a long time. They make it all the way to Krispy Kreme and then to her father's apartment building before she asks the question that's been on the tip of her tongue since bringing up the subject. It takes her a large coffee and two fresh glazed doughnuts to gather up the courage to ask.

''Dean.'' She stops him before he can knock on her father's door, stepping between him and the door. ''Does anyone else know?'' She asks. ''About the miscarriage, I mean.''

He shakes his head. ''No.''

She frowns, scrutinizing him. ''No one? You didn't tell anyone?''

He shrugs, like it's no big deal that he apparently had no one to help him through that loss. ''It wasn't anyone's business.'' He shifts the box of doughnuts to one arm, reaching out to place a steadying hand on her waist instinctively. ''Hey.'' He stops himself, removing his hand. ''I don't want you beating yourself up about what happened. When we get this shit straightened out and everything's back to normal, maybe there can be another conversation,'' he says, somewhat reluctantly. ''About kids. Or no kids. Whatever you want.''

She smiles weakly. She reaches up a hand to touch his face. She doesn't know what else she can say so she leans up and presses her lips to his softly. ''I'm still sorry,'' she whispers, resting her forehead against his. ''If I hadn't...'' She shakes her head. She wraps one arm around the back of his neck, fingers snaking up to run through his hair. ''We would be getting ready to have another baby in a few weeks. Do you know that?''

''I know.''

''I'm sor - ''

''No,'' he cuts off her apology and pulls away from her to meet her eyes. ''Stop it. This is not on you, Laurel. None of it is.''

She doesn't waste her time with objections because she knows he'll just keep pushing her to forgive herself. ''I just don't want you to be mad at me.''

''Laurel, stop.'' He wraps her up in a half hug, still holding the box of doughnuts in one hand. ''I was never mad,'' he tells her firmly. ''Not at you.''

She can tell that's a lie just from the way he says it, but she really needs this conversation to be over before she loses it completely. She can feel the tears clogging up her throat. She doesn't want to be a mess when she sees her dad. Knowing him, he'll be blubbering enough for the both of them. As soon as she pulls away from the hug, she does the exact same thing she had been worried he's been doing and pushes it away so she can pretend it doesn't hurt. She huffs out a tearful and probably unconvincing laugh. ''Gimme those doughnuts,'' she mutters, snatching the box from him. Burying negative emotions in sugar is something she's been good at since she was a kid.

He raises an eyebrow, watching with what looks like morbid fascination as she tears into her third doughnut. ''You have a problem.''

''Yes,'' she nods. ''Sorry not sorry.''

''Listen,'' he says, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. ''I know I've said this before but I'll say it as many times as you need me to: I'm not going anywhere.'' He says it like it's the easiest promise in the world to make. ''You can't get rid of me,'' he tells her with the utmost sincerity. He leans in closer to her, offering her a lopsided smirk and a solemn swear of, ''I'm your ride or die bitch.''

She almost chokes on her doughnut. She was not expecting that. In hindsight, she probably should have. She releases a startled but genuine burst of laughter and can't help but inch her way into his personal space once more. She grasps a fistful of his shirt and yanks him down so she can kiss him like she means it. He's the one who deepens it. He is also the one who slips two fingers into the waistband of the yoga pants she's wearing and tugs her impossibly close. It's really inappropriate to be doing this on her father's doorstep. Also, she has a half eaten doughnut in one hand and the poor Krispy Kreme box is getting totally squished between them. She cares about exactly none of that when he kisses her like this. All she can think about is that his hands are warm.

His fingers are hot against the skin of her stomach, he tastes like coffee and doughnuts, and even though, to her, it hasn't been seven months since he last touched her like this, she suddenly realizes that she's missed him. She's missed this. Terribly. This is something warm and real and alive. She hasn't had that in so long.

The afterlife is, for the most part, made up of your recycled greatest hits. All wonderful and full of joy, but none of them were new. She may have made new memories with her son while she was up there, but she was unable to make new memories with her husband. You never think about that when you're alive. How much you'll miss the ability to make new memories.

The long moment ends, unfortunately, with an abrupt knocking noise. They draw away from each other reluctantly and slowly turn their attention to the closed door. ''Are you two done yet?'' Sara calls out from inside the apartment. ''Or do you need five minutes for some heavy petting and dry humping?''

''Did you just knock on the door from _inside_ the apartment?'' Laurel retorts.

The door swings open. ''I could see you two were having a moment,'' Sara says, gesturing towards the peephole.

''You can reach the peephole?'' Dean asks, mockingly incredulous. ''That's impressive. Do they even have peepholes at the North Pole?''

''Oh, that's good. Because I'm short,'' Sara sneers. ''How original.'' She sticks her nose up in the air and turns back to Laurel. ''I didn't want to interrupt you guys being gross but you were taking forever. And I think it would be awkward if your husband fingered you right there. I mean,'' she throws her arms out. ''I get it. You're horny. But you're standing right outside our dad's apartment. Also, you were holding the doughnuts hostage.'' Then she reaches out, plucks the box from Laurel's grasp, and spins on her heel to go back inside. ''You can be gross later,'' she calls over her shoulder.

''You...'' Dean trails off, wrinkling his nose. Laurel can practically see the gears turning in his head as he tries to come up with an appropriate comeback. ''Your _face_ is gross,'' is what he winds up coming up with.

Sara stops in her tracks, turning around to send him a look of utter disappointment. Even Laurel can't help but tilt her head up to look at him with an arched eyebrow and a downturned mouth.

There is a long silence and then he sighs, looking truly ashamed of that weak insult, and runs a hand over his face. ''It's been a long day.''

Laurel shakes her head. ''That's no excuse.''

''Mary could do better than that,'' Sara adds.

Laurel sends him one last look and wags her finger at him in disappointment as she shuffles past him into the apartment. She pops the rest of her doughnut into her mouth and immediately moves to sink into that old lumpy armchair that Dad refuses to part with.

''Dad's not here, by the way,'' Sara says. ''I finally managed to get a hold of him.'' Despite her initial excitement over the doughnuts and her ire at having them withheld from her, she doesn't take one, instead opting to place the box on the coffee table. ''He was at lunch with Mom.''

Laurel looks up. ''Mom's in town?''

''She came to town for Mary's birthday,'' Dean says, which is...surprising. Mary's birthday has only ever mentioned to bring Professor Drake to town once before. And that's only because she thought Sara would be at the party.

''Dad was on his way to drop her off at the train station,'' Sara goes on. ''I convinced Mom to take a later train so they're both on their way.''

Laurel opens her mouth, fully intending to thank her sister for doing all this but the words die in her throat. She nods, clamping her mouth shut and forcing back a wave of nausea. There is this strange, almost child-like kind of anxiety stirring in her gut at the prospect of being face to face with her parents. She wants to see them. She wants them to know she's here. It's just that, you know, it's her parents. She loves them with every part of her and she would do anything for them, but her relationship with them is complicated.

When it comes to her mother, the relationship is sporadic at best and mostly consists of emails and phone tag. She's tried her best to facilitate a relationship between her mother and her daughter but neither party seems especially interested. Her mother has never been much of a kid person and Mary has never liked strangers. There are wounds that have never healed between Laurel and her mother. The abandonment after the Gambit, her open disapproval of Dean, the passive aggressive digs at her parenting, and the fact that Laurel never turned into the person she wanted her to be. There's an ocean between them now. It's too deep for either one of them to swim across.

Her relationship with her father, on the other hand, is something else entirely. She's been a daddy's girl her whole life; forever willing to forgive his actions in ways she might not forgive her mother's. She has swept a lot of things under the rug in order to cling to that relationship. She's pushed a lot of things away, ignored a lot of bad behavior, because she wants her father's arms to feel like home. To feel safe.

Then she died.

She died horribly, brutally, suddenly, and the last thing Darhk said to her before he killed her was, ''I want you to give your father a message from me.'' That message was her. Arrow in her lung. Unable to breathe. Choking on her own blood.

She doesn't know how to sweep that away. She doesn't know how to pretend that didn't happen.

She looks up at Sara. Her sister seems more excited for this Lance family reunion than she is. She supposes that makes sense. This is not a widely known fact but Laurel and Sara grew up with very different parents. No matter how hard she tried to pretend she couldn't feel it, the division of love never quite felt equal. That's one of the many reasons why the idea of a second child scared the shit out of her. She didn't want to make a poor kid feel the way she felt.

Dean, as usual, has no trouble sensing Laurel's discomfort. He leans down, one hand on her shoulder, to whisper in her ear, ''We don't have to do this today.''

It's a sweet gesture, albeit slightly overprotective, but - yes, this needs to be done today. In theory, her parents have lived with her loss for seven months. They can probably survive another day. Except that seems cruel somehow. To be here, home, alive, and still allow them to believe she's gone. ''I'm okay,'' she says, reaching up to squeeze his hand gently, offering him a smile.

Dean doesn't look like he believes her but he doesn't argue. He looks between her and Sara and then mutters, gruffly, ''I need coffee.'' As if he didn't just throw back an entire extra large dark roast in the time it took them to get the doughnuts and drive here. He ducks out of the room, escaping into the kitchen, leaving the two sisters alone for the first time in... God, how long has it been? Even before April, they hadn't been together like this in so long.

Sara's eyes follow Dean as he leaves the room, her posture stiffening, lips parting like she wants to call out for him to come back.

Laurel doesn't mention it. She waits patiently for Sara to make the first move. In the meantime, she studies her little sister. Sara looks older somehow. Tired. Her posture isn't as straight. And she's skinny. She still looks like she could take anyone on and win but there is no denying she has lost some weight. Her cheekbones are sharper, her clothes baggier. Laurel has the sudden urge to force feed her the rest of the doughnuts and get Dean to make her a sandwich.

Sara perches herself on the coffee table, eventually dragging her gaze back to Laurel. She doesn't look her in the eye but she looks at everything else. Her eyes eventually fixate on Laurel's hands, studying the band-aids and the visible damage. Her mouth pulls down into a frown and she pales when she realizes what she's looking at; the horrors of resurrection and the scars it leaves you with laid bare in front of her.

Laurel tucks her hands under her legs and out of Sara's view. She can't wait for her sister to make the first move any longer. ''Sara,'' she says, keeping her voice soft, like she's talking to Mary after a crying fit or maybe a wild animal in her path. Finally, Sara looks at her. ''Are you all right?''

''I should be the one asking you that.''

''I asked you first.''

Sara fidgets, looking uncomfortable. She can't seem to keep the eye contact up, glancing in the direction of the kitchen once more.

''The last time you were this awkward,'' Laurel begins, trying to keep her voice casual and light. ''You were screwing my boyfriend behind my back.''

The uncharacteristic bluntness seems to scare the crap out of Sara because she whips her head back around to face Laurel at lightning speed, gaping. ''You... You don't think Dean and I - ''

''Oh,'' Laurel bursts into laughter. It might not be the most appropriate reaction but it is such an absurd thought. ''No. God, no. Trust me,'' she says, sobering and offering Sara a smile. ''I don't think that at all. I'm just making an observation. You have something on your mind. I can tell.''

''I have a lot on my mind,'' Sara admits. ''I'm...'' She licks her lips, picking at her cuticles nervously. ''Still processing.''

''I get that,'' Laurel nods. ''Me too.'' She doesn't say anything else, opting not to push the issue. She knows her sister. She'll come to her when she's ready. Not a minute before.

''I don't know how to do this,'' is Sara's eventual confession.

''Talk to me?''

''Yes. I mean. No...'' Sara releases a breath, dropping her gaze and rubbing her hands together. ''I don't know.''

''You can always talk to me, Sar-Bear.''

Sara lifts her gaze. She cocks her head to the side and scrunches up her nose. ''That's the thing,'' she says. ''You don't seem like you right now.''

Laurel thinks about that for a minute. It's not incorrect. She is not herself right now. She doesn't know how to be. Remembering who she was doesn't necessarily help her figure out who she is now. Who she's going to be. It's strange to think about. How you can be one person for so long and then end up being someone else entirely. But it happens. It happened to Oliver, to Sara, to Dean. This is their life.

A few years ago, while she was struggling with all of the returns of people she once knew but people she no longer knew how to navigate, Dean told her something. He said, ''Well, I was someone else once. For twenty-nine years, I was someone else. You've never met him. It's just what happens sometimes, Laurel. People can't stay the same.''

The first time Sara came back, while they were still working on repairing their relationship and getting to know each other again, there were these...moments. It usually happened in the quiet, while the sisters were sitting curled up on the couch watching a movie or during a lull in their conversations. Laurel would look over at this strange creature next to her, the one wearing her sister's face, and she would think, _You are not my sister_. It would just slam into her, this intrusive thought in the back of her mind.

It was true. It still is. Sara is not who she was. Now, neither is Laurel. People who meet her as she is now will never know who she was before. It used to be so unsettling to think about that kind of thing. How the entire shape of you can change. She understands now. Humans are ever changing. We are adjusting, adapting, developing, unfinished. We are constantly under revision. We are like water: the shape of us changes every day, every moment, every second. It's less frightening to think about when you realize that everyone ends in a different place than they start.

That doesn't mean the journey there isn't scary.

''Who am I then?'' She asks quietly.

Sara responds, uncharacteristically quiet, ''I don't know.''

 _Same_ , Laurel thinks, brief smile fluttering over her lips. ''I didn't know how to do this either,'' she admits. ''When you came back. I had no idea what I was doing.''

Sara smirks. It's weak and fleeting but undeniably her. ''Which time?''

Laurel chuckles. ''Both times.'' She leans forward, elbows on her knees, like she's about to reveal some deep secret. ''Everyone thinks goodbyes are the hardest part of life,'' she says, ''but it's the returns that take us apart. There's no guidebook.'' She stands up, moving closer to her sister to crouch in front of her. ''You don't have to know what you're doing right now, Sara,'' she tells her, reflexively reaching up to tuck a strand of Sara's blond hair behind her ear. ''None of us do. We're all just trying our best.''

Sara huffs out a small, breathy sounding laugh. She blinks furiously and chokes out, voice thick, ''I really missed you.''

Laurel straightens up, trying for a smirk. ''I'm easy to miss,'' she winks. She pats Sara on the shoulder, a gesture meant to be as comforting, and then turns away. She can feel Sara's eyes follow her as she drifts aimlessly around the apartment, but no more words are spoken.

It doesn't take her long to find her way over to the table beside the couch that's cluttered with picture frames. Her father's apartment is small and the furnishings are sparse, but he never fails to find room for pictures of his girls. Most of the pictures on the table are of Laurel and Sara at various ages but one of them is, curiously, a picture of her mother. It's an old picture, from before her parents were married. Mom looks young and fresh faced, her lips painted bright red, hair lighter and full of those wild curls of hers. She's laughing, head thrown back, eyes closed, looking blissfully happy.

Laurel has never seen that look on her mother's face in real life.

Dad used to keep this picture on his desk at their house. She hasn't seen it since the divorce. Yet here it is; out in the open for everyone to see. That's interesting.

All of the other pictures on the table are of Laurel and Sara. One of them on Christmas morning, wearing matching pajamas and matching grins for the camera. One of them is from Laurel's high school graduation. It's Laurel and Sara with their arms wrapped around each other, blowing kisses to the camera. Laurel's still in her cap and gown, cap sliding off her head. Sara has these horrible bangs. They look so young and so happy. They have no idea what's going to happen.

Another picture on the table is from 2014. It is the first - and only - Lance family photo to exist since 2007. It was taken a few weeks after that disastrous dinner. It was after her suicide attempt, after the hospital, while she was in the early steps of recovery, shaky but getting better. Mom had a conference in Seattle and she stopped by for an afternoon on her way back to Central City, insisting on a family lunch. Laurel hadn't wanted to go through another shitty Lance family meal - especially not when her sobriety was still something new and fragile - but she was - is - not very good at saying no to her family, so she went.

It's a nice picture if you don't look at it too closely. In the picture, they are on the pier. Mom and Dad in the back, Laurel and Sara in front of them with Mary on Laurel's hip. Everyone is smiling, squinting against the sun while the coastal breeze whips at their hair. Laurel looks closer. Too close to see any of that. All she sees is her mother with her arms thrown around Sara's neck in a loving, maternal gesture, her father's arm around her mother's waist, and then her and Mary, untouched and off to the side. It's not a picture of one family. It's a picture of two.

In all fairness, that divide is mostly on her. She had been livid when that picture was taken, which is evident in her hollow, wooden smile because... Actually, no. It _is_ on them. In the picture, she is not looking at the camera. She is looking at Dean, apology burning bright in her eyes. He took the picture. He wasn't invited to be a part of it. He sat through an awkward lunch, bit his tongue when her mother started talking to her about Carter Bowen's marital status, handled Mary while Laurel tried to soberly interact with her parents and her sister, and he didn't even get to be acknowledged as family for a stupid picture.

Dean has never once been considered part of the family by her parents. Especially her mother, for some reason. Neither one of them have ever given a valid reason for disliking him. Just controlling possessive overprotectiveness from her father and a classist attitude from her mother. It's infuriating and bizarre, even for them. She knows that what happened with Oliver didn't just affect her and Sara, but Dean is not Oliver. She has never been able to get them to understand that. To his credit, Dean tends to brush it off fairly easily. At this point, she doubts he even wants a relationship with her parents.

Laurel presses her lips together and looks down at the picture. She looks at her own face. She looks at Mary. She looks at her father. Out of all of them, he and Mary are the only ones who look blissfully and obliviously happy. Unaware of all the tension and just happy to be together. She sighs, lips quirking up slightly. That's pretty much who her dad is when he's with them: totally willing to ignore the tension as long as he's got his girls with him.

''You three,'' he used to say, ''are all I've ever needed.''

She looks up from the photo to the one of her and Sara on Christmas morning. The focus of the picture is the beaming little girls, but her father is in the background. Blurry and out of focus, sitting on the couch, drinking his coffee in his pajamas, hair mussed, peaceful smile on his young face. Laurel places the picture frame back on the table and brings a hand up to her chest, over her heart.

''Penny for your thoughts?'' Sara's voice comes from behind her. ''Isn't that what Grandpa used to say all the time?''

Laurel paints on a smile and turns. ''I'm okay,'' she says, folding her arms. ''Really.''

Sara nods, looking thoughtful. ''I don't believe you.''

Laurel looks over at the door, expecting it to burst open any second now. The thought fills her with dread. ''Maybe I am a little nervous,'' she admits. ''About seeing Dad. I don't want to be mad at him. I don't want to blame him.''

Sara doesn't look like she understands that particular worry. ''Why would you blame him?''

Laurel grimaces. She runs a hand over her face. Chugging down a large coffee was a mistake. She couldn't even stomach bacon and eggs this morning and she thought devouring three doughnuts was a good idea? Especially given that her body is still adjusting to being up and functioning once again. The heavy emotions and stress certainly isn't helping either. It's all sitting in her stomach like a rock now. She's probably going to end up throwing it all up. She deliberately moves away from the family pictures, putting herself on the other side of the room. ''I didn't die because I was the Black Canary, Sara. I died because I was Quentin Lance's daughter.''

 _I want you to give your father a message from me_ , she remembers, Darhk's slithering, mocking, smug voice clear as day in her head. _I want you to tell him I'm a man of my word._

She clenches her fists and has to force herself to breathe. Her stomach flip-flops nauseatingly. There is a sharp, stabbing pain in her lung. Right where the arrow went in. ''I didn't want to die,'' she says. She doesn't bother to look at her sister. She lets out a breath. A heavy feeling of restlessness settles on her shoulders. She looks around the living room with the walls too close together, the windows too small, the look on Sara's face too sad and pitying. She needs to get out. Away from here.

''I'm going to go help Dean with the coffee,'' she says, and then she turns on her heel and runs.

.

.

.

In the kitchen, her father's ancient coffee maker that barely works is groaning and thumping away, filling the room with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The strong smell does not help the sick feeling in her stomach. Dean is leaning back against the counter, eyes glued to his phone. He looks up when the door swings open and as soon as he sees her standing there, panting slightly, wide eyed, most likely pale, he straightens. ''Uh, babe?'' He abandons his phone on the counter and takes a step in her direction, oddly cautious. ''You good?''

She physically cannot answer that question. If she opens her mouth, she's going to throw up all over her dad's kitchen floor. Her heart is racing in her chest, continuously slamming into her chest way too quickly. She feels sick and hot. She feels like she's being pulled apart. When she looks at him, everything is moving, blurry and distorted.

This is normal, she tries to tell herself. In this fucked up situation, this is normal. It is all part of the recovery, and recovery is often the hardest part. She knows that well. She needs to give herself more time to get used to being here again. She will heal. Things will get better in time. She is trying really hard to believe that.

''I...'' It comes out in a halting squeak. Everything is swaying and rocking. She can't find her balance here in this world. ''I-I'm fine,'' she manages.

She must be comically unconvincing because Dean levels her with a flat, dry look like he thinks he's on The Office. ''Sure you are.'' He's at her side in less than a second, gently pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. ''You're warm.''

''I, um...'' She just needs to sit down. Or lie down. Preferably in a quiet, dark, cool room where she can just breathe. ''I need to - I need to - fuck.'' She squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to get the room to stop spinning. Is she actually swaying on her feet or does she just feel like she is?

''Whoa, hey, Laurel.'' He loops an arm around her waist to steady her, which pretty much proves that she is physically swaying. ''You're freaking me out here.'' He leads her over to the kitchen table and pushes her into a chair before crouching down in front of her. ''Is this a panic attack?'' He asks, rubbing her knee comfortingly. ''Need me to grab you a paper bag?''

She shakes her head, instantly regretting it. The world lurches in front of her eyes and it feels like her brain is sloshing around in her head. She grimaces, swallowing thickly. ''Not a panic attack.''

He doesn't look surprised by that because this is nothing like what her panic looks like. He does look worried. ''What's happening then?''

She doesn't answer.

'' _Laurel_.'' He sounds disproportionately panicked about this. ''You need to tell me what's going on here. What do you need? What can I do for you?''

''Nothing,'' she says. ''Nothing. I just need to breathe for a minute.''

He doesn't move, still staring up at her like he's worried she's going to drop dead. His concern is touching - and understandable - but she needs him to back off. She doesn't know how long she's going to be dealing with this and she needs him not to panic every time she feels shaky. Honestly, it's strange he even is. He's usually incredibly calm during her bad days.

''Can you maybe get me some water?'' She asks. Reluctantly, he leaves her side to get her the water that she doesn't want. She works on breathing through the waves of nausea and dizziness that just keep coming, keep sweeping over her. It helps to calm her heart palpitations but doesn't completely quell the shakiness.

''Are you sure you don't need a paper bag?'' Dean sets a glass of water down on the table beside her. He pulls out a chair, dragging it closer to her and taking a seat.

She takes a few slow sips of the water. ''I'm sure.''

''What about a garbage can?''

''What?''

''You look flushed,'' he says, still frowning at her worriedly. ''Do you feel like you're going to throw up?''

''No.'' She squirms. ''Yes. But stop talking to me like I'm our four-year-old, okay? I'm an adult. I can - '' She has to stop. She presses her lips together as her stomach grows talons and claws its way up her throat. She gulps it down. She breathes out. ''Get me that trash can,'' she hisses out through clenched teeth.

He grabs the thankfully empty trashcan from under the sink and then dutifully moves her hair out of her face, rubbing circles on her back while she white knuckles the plastic. She does not throw up - thank god for small miracles - but it's close. She does let out an unattractive hiccupping noise, though. He doesn't even flinch. He gives her a few much needed moments of silence while she impatiently waits for it to pass. She closes her eyes and focuses on the feel of her husband's hand on her back, the sound of her sister rustling around in the living room, the stillness of the kitchen, and her own breathing. The nausea passes and the spinning sensation dulls.

''You gonna let me in on what's happening?'' He asks, once she's opened her eyes again.

She moves slowly, placing the trash can on the ground and grabbing her water. She takes a few slow sips, not to settle her stomach but to stall. She's trying to figure out a way to tell him what she needs to tell him. She doesn't want him to think that she doesn't want to be here. She puts the glass back on the table. ''Everything was different. Where I was.''

It doesn't take him long to figure out what she's referring to. He draws away from her, sitting back in his chair. His hand falls limply to his side. She can't read the look on his face. She's always been able to read him like a book. She's a little perturbed that she can't right now. ''Where you were.''

''Up there,'' she clarifies, even though she doesn't need to. ''Or - I don't know. Wherever it is. Heaven, I guess.'' Heaven. She was in Heaven. That part is harder to comprehend than the actual dying part. She has no idea what to do with the memories of what it was like up there. ''It was just...different.''

She thinks about the home she had while she was there. The cavernous Victorian era farmhouse with the wrap around porch. Exactly what she always wanted. The acres of land surrounding them - from the vast garden to the meadows and fields to the woods to the huge lake. She thinks about the winding pathway that went down to the dock. She thinks about the birds singing in the trees. About her son playing in the tall grass in the field. Taking him for walks in the forest and trying her best to teach him about nature, even though she herself wasn't that knowledgeable about nature. She used to be a city girl. It's how she was raised. Strange that her soul would choose the exact opposite of city life as her eternal resting place.

Although it was gorgeous. Her specific slice of Heaven could be, at times, lonely. Not a bad place to be, but it felt half empty and incomplete somehow. Like she was waiting for someone. But it sure was beautiful. She doesn't mention any of these things to Dean.

''I'm not talking about emotionally,'' she says. ''Physically, everything was...'' It's hard to explain all this. ''I felt lighter,'' she decides. ''It was like I was weightless. Everything was wide open and - and still. There was no chaos. No rush. I was there, I existed, but it wasn't like being human. I was floating. I was everywhere. It was peaceful.'' She stops to take another slow, procrastinating sip of her water. ''Then I come back here,'' she says, lowering her voice, ''and it's all so small. And fast.'' She swallows down her discomfort. She doesn't want to look at him when she says this. It's a struggle to explain this. To put how she's feeling into words without sounding ungrateful. ''This body feels tired,'' she tells him. ''And heavy. Bones are heavy.'' She gives him a fleeting, wry smile. ''Did you know that? I don't remember how to carry these things around. Everything's moving, Dean. It's all spinning. I feel like I'm getting motion sickness just from standing or walking around or the earth moving. It's like I'm claustrophobic just from being confined to my own body.''

She has scared him with this confession. That much is evident. His eyes are burning into her, not quite as blank as he wants them to be. The worry is easily recognizable. He looks away from her, dropping his gaze down to the table. She thinks maybe she shouldn't have said anything. There are some things we have to carry alone. Not all burdens are created equal. She should have kept this one to herself.

''It's just going to take some time, I think.'' She keeps her voice desperately nonchalant, putting a smile on her lips that feels fake and nervous. ''It's all going to take some time. I'm - I'm unsteady right now, but I won't be forever. I just need to get my sea legs back.''

At that, Dean looks up. There is a new look in his eyes, overriding the worry: determination. He covers it up with softness - a smile and a squeeze of the hand. ''I know,'' he says. It doesn't sound like he's lying to her. ''You will.'' He moves his hand to her wrist, holding onto her loosely. It's clear to her just from the way he positions his fingers that it's not just a comforting gesture but one meant to check her pulse. She's not sure if he's checking to see if her anxiety is up or just to make sure she's still alive. ''I can give you time,'' he promises. ''We've got all the time in the world right now. Just, uh,'' he clears his throat, pulling his hand back slowly. ''Tell me when you're feeling sick?''

She nods. ''I promise.''

Dean looks at her with this carefully constructed mask on his face. There is something underneath it that she can't quite get to. Something he's not telling her. She's not sure how to feel about that. Trust is a funny thing. She spent a lot of years believing it was something easily given. Then Oliver happened. When the Gambit went down, when she lost Ollie and Sara, it broke her. She was grieving, she was angry, she was publicly humiliated and torn apart, left wounded and bleeding for all to see. It was hard to trust after that. Then Dean came along and he stuck around to earn her trust, patiently staying with her even when she was distrustful and paranoid.

She trusts him completely now. She trusts him with all of her. She trusts him not to be like every other man in her life, not to keep secrets, to control the narrative, to gaslight her, and decide what she can and cannot handle. They do not lie to each other. But right now, there is something he's not telling her. She can see it in his eyes, hidden away. Whatever it is, it's in his whole body and it's rattled him. She hopes, one day, he'll be able to tell her what he's locked away.

''I'm going to fix this, Laurel.'' The way he says it makes it sound like he's making her some grand promise.

She's caught off guard by the intensity of his declaration. ''Fix what?''

For a flicker of a moment, there is this wild, trapped look in his eyes. Like he's said something he shouldn't have and she's caught him red handed. ''All of this,'' he says eventually, awkwardly vague. ''Everything that's going on with these witches. We'll figure it out and then we can focus on getting you better and getting back to our life.''

She smiles. She hopes it looks happy and confident. ''That sounds nice.''

He sits back in his chair, watching her closely but not actually saying anything. She wraps both hands around her glass of water. Neither of them speak for a long time. The silence is not as comfortable as it once was. They are no longer the same people they were in April. That is going to take some getting used to.

When he does eventually say something, his voice is quiet and subdued and his question is slow and hesitant. ''Were you happy?''

Laurel tries to think about her time in the afterlife. She tries to sift through the confusion in her head. It's like remembering a dream. Some parts are vivid. Some parts are out of focus. There are gaps in her memories. It feels impossibly far away, like it wasn't real, like it didn't happen, but she knows it did. Time is strange. It doesn't work the way it does here. It's fluid and moveable. It passes quickly but you don't notice. It doesn't mean as much. The passage of time is not something one needs to pay attention to in the afterlife. Time is a human construct. Only they assign such meaning to it. Heaven, for her, lasted a lifetime. Several, in fact. It wasn't just seven months. Perhaps that's why it's so jumbled. She has lifetimes in her head now. It's hard to wade through all that.

''I don't know what I was,'' she answers, truthfully. ''But it was good.''

There was a lake where she was. Sunshine, a cool breeze, an apple tree. She remembers floating, drifting out on the water, relaxed and calm. She was so close to being at peace. At rest. Then, one day, she was out on the lake, enjoying the breeze, the shape and the sound of the water, and then everything changed. The sky clouded over, taking the sun from her, leaving her in a colorless, faded, gray world for the first time in years. The wind picked up, the water rippled, thunder rumbled in the distance, and her entire body started to tingle and then hurt. It took her a moment to realize that what she was feeling was fear because she had gone so long without it.

There was a crack in the sky when she was pulled out. It was this dark, gaping tear in the fabric of what had become her reality. Something jolted up out of the water and wrapped around her ankle, curling itself around her, and then it tugged, pulled hard, and she was dragged under the black water.

And then she woke up in the ground.

She can still feel that vine-like whatever around her ankle. She is somewhere in the middle now. Most humans don't realize that. They don't understand that their short lives exist in the middle. The in between.

Laurel looks at Dean. She looks at his eyes. The fine lines around them. She looks at his hands. His lips. His shoulders. She thinks of Mary, grinning and giggling while she sticks band aids on her forehead. She thinks of Sara, of Thea, of Sam and Cas, of her parents. The middle is not such a bad place to be. Everything moves fast here. It spins and knocks her off balance, yes, but this is where her family is. In the end, that's all that matters. ''I'd rather be here,'' she says honestly. ''Heavy bones and all. I'd rather be with you.''

He looks relieved. ''I'm glad.'' He cups her cheek in his hand, rising to his feet and leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. He lingers for a second too long, just long enough for her eyes to flutter closed, entire body relaxing at the proximity, and then he pulls away.

She turns down his offer of a cup of coffee and settles for watching him make his. ''So what did I miss while I was away?''

He pours himself a cup of coffee, handling the sorry old coffee machine as if it's about to fall apart in his hands. ''New Ghostbusters movie.''

''Yeah? Did you see it?''

''I did. I got ambushed by a bunch of waywards. They kidnapped me.''

She laughs. ''Was it at least a good movie?''

''Yes, but I was sitting next to Claire. Did you know she talks through movies?''

''I did, yes.''

''Even Mary doesn't talk that much.''

''Well, she has a lot to say. Can't let any of those sarcastic quips go unsaid.''

He releases a soft and warm chuckle, eyes crinkling. ''Clearly.'' He stirs some sugar into his black coffee and then sits back down at the table with her. He takes a single sip of his coffee and then the second he places the mug on the table, she reaches out and steals it. She sips at the coffee and doesn't give it back. He arches an eyebrow at her and she grins at him over the rim of the mug. This is familiar territory. He doesn't bother to protest, undoubtedly used to this by now. Just shakes his head, visibly pushes back a smile, and gets up to make himself another cup of coffee. She grins and leans back, propping her feet up on his vacant chair. ''Oh, hey,'' he pipes up, helpfully pouring some cream into what is now her coffee. ''The summer Olympics.''

''Aww.'' She looks up from swirling her coffee around half-heartedly to mix in the cream. She forms her lips into a pout. ''I missed the Olympics?''

''Watching gymnastics wasn't the same without you critiquing their routines and yelling _I coulda been a contender_ at the screen.''

''Well, I could've been,'' she insists.

He snorts around his mouthful of fresh coffee. Once he's dumped some more sugar into the mug, she reluctantly moves her legs from his chair, pulling them up onto hers, knees to her chest. For a second, the only sound is the sound of his spoon clinking around in his mug while he stirs his drink. Then, after he takes another gulp, he says, almost like he's confessing to a crime, ''I took Mary to Kansas over the summer.''

She sips at her coffee. ''You did?''

''In July,'' he nods. ''I needed to get out of here.'' He lifts his cup to his lips. ''We went and stayed at the bunker for a couple of weeks.''

''How did that go?''

He huffs out a bitter laugh. ''It was a shitty couple of weeks. Maybe not for her,'' he allows. ''She thought it was a special vacation. She must have had fun. She didn't want to leave.''

''No?''

''There's a pool there.''

''There's a _pool_ in the Men of Letters bunker?''

''Guess the old librarians had to get their exercise somehow, right?'' His lips quirk up momentarily. ''Sam found the pool a few weeks before we went up there. He and Eileen cleaned it, fixed it up, and everything. All I had to do was fill it up. Figured we might as well work on her swimming while we were there.''

Laurel chews on her top lip. There are these pieces of memories in her head of being in the lake with their son. When he was two, five, ten, thirteen, seventeen, twenty-one. She taught him how to swim there. She watched him splash around. She tried to teach him how to fish. She heard him call out in morning before breakfast, ''Mom, I'm going for a swim!'' On his sixteenth birthday, she sat on the edge of the dock with him and they talked about the father and the sister he never met. She told him that he looked like his dad, that he had his sister's love of nature, and then she pushed him in the water and when he surfaced for breath, he was laughing.

Except he wasn't. There was no laughter. No lake. No boy. None of that actually happened. Or maybe it did. She's not clear on that part. If her son was a figment, created solely to keep her from being miserable, then the life she lived with him was fictional. If he was real, the echo of a lost child or one who was supposed to exist if she hadn't gotten herself skewered, then that means she left him up there without so much as a goodbye. Which is worse? A lie or a ghost?

She places her mug on the table and gnaws on her fingernail, watching Dean through her eyelashes. Everyone thinks that they know what life is. What choice means. Humans believe they understand what it means to exist. They don't. Not really. They can't. You only learn that after it's over.

Dean is still talking, telling her all about Mary learning to swim. How she still doesn't have it down but she's doing better. She doesn't know what to do with her hands, he tells her, and she doesn't like being fully submerged in the water with her eyes closed. It's too dark, apparently. Laurel almost wants to laugh at that. Yes, she understands that fear. The darkness of water is definitely something to be afraid of. Maybe Mary gets that from her.

''She went horseback riding while we were up there,'' Dean adds.

The words abruptly tear her out of her thoughts and send her crashing back to reality. ''What?'' Horseback riding. She swallows. Mary loves horses. They're her favourite animal. Always have been. Even if she's never seen one in real life. ''She did?''

''I was...'' Dean stops. ''Things were bad,'' he eventually says. ''I didn't want her to feel that. I wanted to make sure she had a good time, and you know how much she loves horses.''

She tilts her lips up into a half smile. ''I do.''

Her little girl adores horses. One of her first words was ''pony.'' She talks about them all the time. She spotted a coloring book full of horses at the store once and carted it around and when they got to the checkout, she just stood there, peering up at Laurel with her big innocent eyes, clutching the book to her chest, until Laurel sighed and bought it for her. Mary spent the rest of the evening naming every horse in the book.

Around Valentine's Day, with the idea of a second child weighing heavily on her shoulders and her 31st birthday looming just around the corner, Laurel had asked her daughter, ''How would you feel if Mommy and Daddy had another baby? Do you want a little brother or sister?''

They were outside in the backyard. It was wet and rainy, and Mary was looking for earthworms. At the mention of a sibling, she pushed up the hood of her bright yellow rain jacket, and looked up at her mom with a scrunched up nose. ''No, thank you'' she had said, simply. ''I want a horse please.'' At least she had been polite about it.

One of her most prized possessions is her footie pajamas with the horses on them. They don't fit her anymore. They haven't for awhile. Laurel vividly remembers cutting them up, making patches, and sewing the patches onto a blanket so that Mary didn't have to lose her favourite pajamas. It was the first time she had sewn anything since home economics in high school. She had almost failed that class. Dean had offered to do it but she had wanted to feel useful, had wanted to feel like she was more than just some crappy part time mom. It took her way longer than it would have taken him. She made him write down a play by play of what she was supposed to be doing. It took those instructions, several YouTube tutorials, and a call to her grandmother, but she made that blanket. Mary loved it. She giggled, jumping up and down on the couch and yelping out, ''Oh! Oh! Horsies! Daddy, look, it's my horsies!''

Laurel had spent years looking forward to the day when Mary finally got to see a horse in real life. And she missed it.

''She was so happy,'' Dean says. His voice is hushed. He sounds like he's unsure whether he should be telling her this. ''I didn't tell her where we were going. I wanted it to be a surprise. Then when she got out of the car and saw that horse...'' He trails off. It was months ago and he still sounds awed by the experience. It makes her throat ache. ''I thought she'd be shy. At least at first. Just because it's Mary,'' he goes on. ''But she wasn't. I think she would've been happy just to pet the thing but when she actually got to ride it,'' he chuckles lightly. ''You should've seen the look on her face when she was up there, Laur. She was thrilled.''

She can imagine. She used to do that a lot. She used to imagine taking Mary to meet a real live horse all the time. She and Dean even tried to make it happen for her third birthday at a farm just outside the city but the plans fell through. They were always so busy. They thought they had time.

There's a pricking behind her eyes that she tries fervently to ignore and blink away. ''She rode a horse,'' she whispers.

''She rode a horse,'' he confirms.

She wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knee, trying to swallow the sob rising in her throat. ''I wasn't there to see it.'' A few stubborn tears escape, dripping down her cheeks. Irritated, she squeezes her eyes shut to prevent more from leaking out.

''Shit,'' he sounds regretful. ''Honey, don't cry.'' She can feel his hand on her cheek, thumb brushing away tears. ''I'm sorry. I shouldn't have - ''

''No.'' She shakes her head adamantly, wiping at her eyes. ''No, I want to hear these things.'' She puts her legs down, feet on the floor, and scoots her chair closer to him. ''I want to hear everything I missed. Especially when it comes to Mary. Do you have pictures?''

''Oh, uh.'' He pulls back. ''Yeah, of course. You want to see them now?'' He is already fishing his phone out of his pocket before she even has the chance to nod. When he hands his phone over to her, the first thing she sees is Mary, mid laugh. She is sitting atop a horse, wearing a riding helmet and her little purple rain boots that she loves so much. Someone is leading the horse around the pen, hopefully slowly and carefully, and she looks so delighted. Laurel can practically hear her girl's overjoyed laughter in her head. She flicks through the pictures of Mary with the horse - and there are a lot of them - and watches a couple of videos, and she studies the look on her face in every picture.

One of the pictures near the end is of Mary with her arms around the horse's neck, nuzzling it. The horse is either very well trained or too old to give a shit because it doesn't seem to care that a tiny human has attached herself to it. It almost looks as in love with Mary as she clearly is with it. That look on Mary's face is incredible to see. There's nothing better.

There is also a deep and fragile kind of pain. It is sharp and right in her chest. She missed her daughter's first time riding a horse, something she had wanted to see so badly. She missed her daughter's first day of preschool. She missed firsts. She never anticipated missing any firsts. She probably should have, but she didn't. Even knowing the risks of what she did, she thought she would be there for these things. She thought she would get to stand in the mud with Dean and snap an obnoxious amount of pictures of Mary's first horseback ride.

''It's hard,'' she admits, quietly. ''I missed so much. Seven months is so long. It's practically a lifetime to a four-year-old.'' She blows out a breath, pushing a hand through her hair as she hands the phone back to him. ''A four-year-old,'' she murmurs, disbelieving. ''She's four now. She wasn't four when I last saw her.''

''Laurel.'' His voice sounds impossibly gentle as he leans across to grasp her hand. ''Listen to me. Seven months is a long time. It is. We can't go back and fill the empty space. But we're going to fill up the rest of our lives with brand new memories that we make with her.'' He genuinely sounds like he believes what he's saying. ''You missed the horses,'' he says, ''but you're not going to miss anything else. She's got a lot of firsts ahead of her. You're going to be here to see them.''

She manages a watery smile at that. She hopes he's right. She reaches out to touch his face, resting her palm against his cheek. She used to tell their son about his dad every night. What a brave, kind, wonderful man he was. She told him stories about Dean, about Mary, about how much they would love him if they met him. She told him those stories every night for years. ''Thank you,'' she says. ''For taking her to see the horses.''

He leans into her touch and brings a hand up to gently squeeze her hand. He moves back and her hand falls away. ''Might've been the one thing I did right.''

She raises her eyebrows. ''What does that mean?'' She doesn't get an answer. ''Honey,'' she prods.

''I made a lot of bad choices while you were gone,'' is what he says. ''A lot of shitty, selfish choices.''

''Well, nobody makes the right choices all the time.''

''Does that really justify it?''

She doesn't know what she's supposed to be justifying. ''It's not a justification. It's an explanation.'' She wraps both her hands around her cup of coffee but doesn't bring it up to her lips. ''Pain is brutal and demanding and - yeah.'' She lazily lifts a shoulder in some kind of aborted half shrug. ''It's selfish.'' That's an undeniable fact. She knows that selfishness well. ''The selfishness of pain is not unforgiveable, Dean.''

That's something her therapist used to tell her. When she was in recovery, fresh off a suicide attempt and still fragile, she carried around so much guilt over what she put her family through when she was at her lowest. Her therapist told her, in no uncertain terms, that her pain was not unforgivable and that she was not some horrible person for hurting. It makes sense now. It was harder to swallow back then. She imagines it will be similar for Dean. She still needs to say it. She has nothing else to offer him and she needs to give him something. ''Obviously it's not a one size fits all kind of situation and some things are worse than others,'' she goes on, ''but survival can be a twisted and ugly thing.''

''Is that what it was?'' He smiles coolly. As expected, he doesn't look like he believes her. ''Survival?''

''You're still here, aren't you?'' She moves her chair closer to him, bringing her hand to his wrist. ''Do you remember after I got sober when I kept trying to thank you for saving my life? Do you remember what you said to me?''

He sighs. ''I have a dim memory.''

''This survival is yours,'' she recites. ''That's what you said to me. I kept that with me every day.'' She moves her hand to his back. ''Sweetheart, this survival is yours.'' She doubts that is going to penetrate the wall of guilt that he has built around himself for whatever reason, but she needs to say it. ''I don't know what happened while I was gone. I don't know how bad it was, how much pain you were in, but you survived it. You made it through. This survival is yours. It belongs to you.'' She loops an arm through his and leans in close to him, offering him an encouraging smile. ''I'm proud of you,'' she tells him softly. ''You were still here when I came home to you. You have no idea how grateful I am for that.'' He still doesn't respond, which is not unexpected. He does this; laughs off praise, ignores compliments, makes some dumb joke because he's uncomfortable with kindness. She leans her chin on his shoulder, peering up at him. ''Do you forgive me for leaving?''

That gets a reaction out of him. ''You were murdered,'' he says firmly. ''There's nothing to forgive.''

''Okay. Well, if you can forgive me for leaving then you should be able to forgive yourself for staying. Even when you didn't want to. Especially when you didn't want to.''

He laughs then, an exhausted rumble. When he looks at her, his eyes are soft and warm, but she can see the bits of incredulity. ''How do you do that?''

She draws away from him slightly and reaches for her mug again. ''Do what?''

''Know what to say.''

''My brain sends a message to my mouth.''

''Smart ass.''

''You love my smart ass.'' She doesn't know. That's her secret. She doesn't know what to say. She never knows. The words find her. She says what her foolish heart believes they want to hear. What they need is usually something different. She's never been able to get those words out of her throat. For instance, right now. She will keep saying all these sweet words, she will hand him all of the kindness she has to give, and maybe it will comfort him but none of this will make him truly believe that he deserves to be forgiven for living while she died. Or for whatever atrocities he committed in her name. ''I don't know how I do it,'' she says. ''I just love you. I want you to feel better. I'll do what I can to get you there.''

He takes her hand, careful not to aggravate any of her injuries, and lifts it up so he can kiss the back of it. ''See,'' he says, very seriously. ''It's things like this that make me your ride or die bitch.''

She laughs again, quietly, and leans in to kiss him. He is still holding her hand. When she pulls away from the brief kiss, she looks down at his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand. She blinks as this flash of a memory hits her right between the eyes. She tugs her hand out of his grasp and lays her palms flat on the table. ''I didn't sing to him the way I do with Mary.''

It takes him a second to catch up to that. When he does, he visibly swallows. ''No?''

''He didn't like songs,'' she says, smile flickering on her lips. ''He liked stories. So I told him stories.'' This is very strange to talk about. This child she's remembering - this boy. She can't be sure he was real. If he was, that means she ''lived'' lifetimes without Dean but with their son. That's so unfair. Whoever thought Heaven would be unfair? ''Most of them were about you,'' she says, pulling her lips up into a smile. ''You were the one he asked about the most. I told him stories about everyone. All the people who would have loved him. None of them held a candle to you.'' She licks her lips. ''When he was little, it was every night. He asked what you looked like. All the time. He said it was so that if he ever saw you, he'd recognize you.''

It was a sweet thing and she answered the question, but it was naive. There were no other people where they were. It was just them. Always. ''He stopped asking as much as he got older. I think when he was a kid, he used to think that you were going to come and get us and take us home. Then when he got older, he realized that we were too far out of reach and you couldn't - you couldn't get to us.'' She takes a slow sip of her coffee to wash down the taste of ashes in her mouth. ''He'd still ask about you, though. Even when he was a teenager. He would ask over breakfast or he would be helping me in the garden and he would ask me to tell him all about the time his father saved the world.''

Dean looks like he's having a hard time grasping all this. Not because it's unbelievable because nothing is unbelievable now. They have seen enough to know that. It's the fact that there was a child he didn't know. One he never met. It's the fact that her timeline is different than his. She gets that. She's having a hard time understanding time right now too. ''It wasn't seven months for you,'' he breathes out. ''Was it?''

''No,'' she admits. ''It was longer.''

''I would have come for you. I _tried_.''

''I know.'' She places her hand over his. ''I know. I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad. You didn't fail us, Dean. There was nothing you could have done. I'm telling you this because I have two lives in my head now.'' She shrugs and tries to make herself sound calm. She is not calm. Not at all. She's sure he knows that, but she's trying.

Her memories of the afterlife are both tangible and intangible. They are there but they are still jumbled. They filter in and out, these flashes of a home, a child, some form of peace and rest. Some of them are disappearing like wisps of smoke. It's chaos in her head right now. She wants to say these things out loud, to tell Dean all about their son, to put her memories of him out there in the space between them. Real or false, she needs these words to be as close to tangible as possible. If these memories slip away from her permanently the longer she's here, if she loses their son completely, she wants him to exist somewhere, even if it is just in these words.

''I want you to know that he loved you,'' she says. ''Even though he never got a chance to meet you. All he ever wanted was to know his father, so I made sure to give him all the pieces of Winchester I could. Including his name.''

''You named him after me?'' He sounds weirdly blown away by that. Out of everything she's saying right now, that is the part that seems to floor him.

''I named him Henry.''

There is a faraway look in his eyes when she says that. She can't tell if it's pride or grief. It's hard not to think about the life they could be living if that day in April had ended differently. There's no guarantee that the baby would have been Henry, but she can't help but wonder. If one of the many different earths in the Multiverse is exactly like this one except with a different end to that night then she hopes that version of herself is grateful for the life she's living, the baby she's about to have, and her beating heart.

''Wow,'' Dean says suddenly. ''Our kids kind of have boring names, don't they?''

There is a beat of silence and then Laurel bursts into laughter. Hysterical laughter, to be precise. It's a good thing they're alone right now because she has a feeling anyone else would be reprimanding him for ruining the moment. It's like when she was pregnant and they would both affectionately refer to the baby as _the parasite_ or _the blob_ or, her personal favourite, _alien invader_. They freaked out so many people. People get really weird about fetuses.

One time, when she was a week overdue and contracting miserably through an awkward family dinner, she grumbled out something like, ''Somebody needs to draw this little shit a map.''

Dean reacted to that like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Sam rolled his eyes. Her father looked like he was seriously considering preemptively calling CPS on them.

Another time, when she was craving sushi and soft cheeses that she couldn't have, she had jokingly grumbled, ''Man, she's not even here and she's already ruining my life'' and Joanna had looked horrified. She kept sending her worried looks for like a week straight.

She'd told Dean about it when she got home, just to see if she was really that out of line, and his only response was, ''Wait, what the fuck? You can't have _cheese_? Who wants to live a cheeseless life?''

She has learned over the years that she and Dean have a tendency to feed off each other when it comes to their unapologetically dark and self-deprecating sense of humor. ''It's a really good thing we found each other,'' she gets out, once she has managed to stop laughing. ''Because nobody else thinks we're funny.''

''Their loss,'' he retorts. ''We're hilarious.''

She chuckles again, leaning in to peck his cheek before rising to her feet. She snatches the water glass off the table and shuffles over to put it in the sink. She's mostly testing to see if she still feels wobbly but she needs something to do with her hands. She still feels mildly dizzy but things feel a bit better for the time being. It's strange to feel so out of place here. She's never felt that before. Even when she was at her worst, she never truly felt like she didn't belong. Not in this way. Laurel puts the glass in the sink, absently rinsing it out even though it only had water in it.

''Okay,'' Dean says from behind her. He sounds serious again. ''My turn. I need to tell you something.''

She turns around, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. ''The new Ghostbusters movie wasn't really that good?''

''You have an Earth Two counterpart.''

The barely there smile drops off her face. ''Oh. Well, I...'' She shifts on her feet nervously. ''I figured we all had counterparts there.''

''That might be true,'' he says cautiously. ''But yours is here.''

She doesn't say a word. All she can think, even if it is irrational, is _Holy shit, they replaced me. I'm replaceable_. She swallows thickly. She knows that's a huge leap, but she can't help it. It does sound like something that would happen. ''When you say she's here...''

''Not here here,'' he clarifies, rising to his feet. ''She's in Central City.''

She nods slowly, still working on processing. This is - well. Not the weirdest thing that's ever happened to her, but it's up there.

He takes his spot beside her, leaning back against the counter. ''It's a long story,'' he says. Judging by the way he says that, she's guessing it's a messy story. ''She's in the pipeline.''

She snaps her gaze to him, alarmed. ''The pipeline? You mean the unsanctioned prison where The Flash puts villainous metahumans?''

He grimaces. ''That'd be the one, yeah. She,'' he looks away, ''made different choices in her life.''

Oh.

 _Yikes._

Laurel sighs heavily.

''So,'' she clears her throat. ''I dug myself out of my grave and now I have an evil doppelganger.'' She turns to look at him, brow furrowed. ''Am I _all_ the characters from Buffy?''

He snorts, eyes crinkling. ''Well,'' he allows, ''there _is_ a lot of leather flying around in your story.''

She grins, but it's lukewarm at best. She's still stuck on the fact that she apparently has an evil twin. ''She's a meta?''

''She is.''

''What's her power?''

He sends her a sidelong glance. ''It's what you think it is.''

''This is real,'' she blurts out. ''This is really real.'' She lifts a hand to her throat. It's better than it was. There's still a lingering dull ache but it doesn't burn the way it did. There's no overwhelming pressure like there was before. ''I'm...'' She cannot bring herself to say it out loud. If she says it, that means it's real and if it's real that means they can never go back. Her entire life is something else now. Her body is something else.

''It looks that way,'' his voice is quiet.

''I don't understand.'' She pushes off the counter and walks away from him, putting herself on the other side of the tiny kitchen. ''I wasn't anywhere near the particle accelerator explosion.''

''I know.''

''How did this happen? Has this thing been inside of me since the beginning? Just waiting? If it's always been here, what does that mean for - What have I done to Mary? What could I have passed down to her?'' She's tripping all over her words, stumbling around uselessly, barely able to get the words out. It's a horrifying thought; that this could one day happen to Mary. That she could ever be made to feel that excruciating burning feeling in her chest and throat, like fire is crawling up her throat but instead of her organs melting inside of her, it's just this awful, uncontrollable, destructive wave. She doesn't want this thing, whatever it is. She certainly doesn't want Mary to have it.

None of the things she's saying seem to take Dean by surprise in any way, shape, or form. The look on his face tells her that these are all things he's thought about. ''That's why I think we should talk to her,'' he says, taking a step towards her.

''Her as in Dark Laurel?''

''Dinah,'' he corrects. ''And yes. Think about it. She's lived with this thing for years. She knows how to control it. I think she can help you.''

''Would she help me?''

That one he doesn't have an immediate answer for. He leans back against the counter. He bites down on his bottom lip thoughtfully. ''I think she can be convinced,'' he says. ''If I talk to her.''

She arches an eyebrow at him. She has several questions. She feels like she needs to ask him how he knows Dinah Doppelganger. How they met. What kind of relationship they have. These are the questions she should be asking. She's just not sure she wants the answers to them. She doesn't think it's something she wants to ponder right now. She looks down at the ground and thinks, instead, about this - this... Canary Cry. That's what it is. A Canary Cry. One she never asked for. Nevertheless, it is one she got.

She lifts her head to meet his eyes. ''Am I dangerous?''

His response is quick. ''You're Laurel.''

''Yes,'' she agrees. ''But am I dangerous?''

His silence is answer enough.

She attempts to open her mouth to ask him if he really thinks it's safe for her to be around Mary right now, but she's cut off by the sound of the front door opening and the muffled, faraway sound of her father's voice. She stands up straight, heart leaping up into her throat. She's trying her best to keep her nerves under wraps but Dean must be able to see right through that because he immediately says, ''Last chance to make a break for it down the fire escape.''

''Dean.''

''I'm just putting it out there. Say the word and we're out the window.''

She pats his cheek. ''You're sweet, hon, but you know I need to see them.'' She doesn't give herself long to get ready for what is inevitably going to be a whole lot of crying. If she takes too long, she will chicken out. She takes in a deep breath and then she spins on her heel and pushes through the door into the living room.

Her dad is standing there with his back to her and his attention on Sara. He's asking her what the emergency is, if she's all right, if she's hurt, if Mary's hurt. He sounds tired and frantic. Laurel's entire mouth goes dry when she hears his voice.

Her father is the first person she sees. Her mother is the first person who sees her.

She's standing over by the door, both hands clutching at her purse straps. There is a suitcase at her feet and she looks troubled, gaze focused intently on the back of Sara's head. And then she looks up. She looks up and there's her dead kid standing there staring at her. She has to do a double take. Her eyes widen, her jaw drops, and she goes through exactly three seconds of shock before her entire body crumples in relief. She doesn't look as surprised by this new development as one might expect. ''Laurel.'' She says her name so softly. Laurel has never heard her mother say her name like this.

At the sound of her name, her father stiffens, standing up straight, leaning away from Sara. He doesn't turn around.

Laurel is not sure what the protocol is here. What does she say? Does she just say, _Hey, what's up?_ Should she add on an _I'm not dead anymore?_ It feels redundant to say those words. She's standing here, trembling and sucking in oxygen. Seems like proof enough.

Dad turns around. He seems to do it reluctantly, as if he is afraid the universe is playing a cruel joke on him and she'll be gone by the time he gets to her. Given their luck, it's not an unfounded fear. She is still there when he turns around. He doesn't say anything right away. She's not sure he could if he tried. He just looks at her. This expression crosses his face, this crashing wave of shock and awe and love. She doesn't think she will ever be able to understand the way he must be feeling. She can't imagine losing Mary. She doesn't want to. Losing her daughter is something unfathomable and unspeakable. She would not survive it. She doesn't know how her parents have managed to live through that three times.

It must be horrific to lose a child. It must be utterly overwhelming to get them back.

''Hi, Daddy,'' she greets. They are the first words she has spoken to her father in seven months. She can't remember what the last ones were. She thinks it was a quick ''talk to you tomorrow'' accompanied by a distracted kiss on the cheek outside a restaurant. He was looking at his phone. She was cold, Dean and Mary were already in the car, waiting for her, and she just wanted to get home. They didn't know that would be it. How could they have known? What would they have said if they did?

He is still looking at her like she's a ghost. ''How is this...'' He takes a step back, looking worryingly shaky on his feet. ''Are you real?''

''I'm real,'' she assures him. ''I'm right here.''

''How?'' Now that he's looked at her, he can't seem to tear his eyes away from her. ''How are you here?''

''Would you believe me if I said it was magic?''

Abruptly, he swings his attention over her shoulder, eyes darkening. ''You.'' He points an accusing finger at someone and she turns her head, following his gaze straight to Dean. ''What did you do?''

Dean's reaction to that is to throw his hands up in the air, exasperated. ''Why does everyone keep asking me that?'' There's a pause in which every member of the Lance family stares at him incredulously. He rolls his eyes. ''All right, I can see why people keep asking me that.''

''He didn't,'' Sara steps in. ''He didn't do this. This is, um...'' She drifts off, looking at Laurel for help.

''A long story,'' Laurel supplies.

Her mother does not seem to be as apprehensive about this. ''I knew it,'' she declares. She drops her purse and rushes to close the distance between them, enveloping Laurel in a tight embrace. ''I knew it,'' she repeats, murmuring into Laurel's hair. The hug doesn't last long because she pulls back, bringing both hands to Laurel's cheeks to look her over. She smiles at her, a smile so close to the one in that picture. ''I told you, Quentin,'' she says. ''I told you our girls always come back to us.''

Laurel looks over at her father. He is still looking at her like she's about to disappear in a puff of smoke. ''I know that this is a shock,'' she says, looking back and forth between her parents. ''But I'm here. I'm me. I'm home. I - I'm sorry for the pain you must have - ''

She never gets to finish her sentence.

Her father cuts her off by stepping into her space and wrapping his arms around her. He holds onto her tightly, one hand on the back of her head, burying his face in her hair. It takes her a second to realize he's crying. It is not a perfect moment. She would love to say that the second his arms are around her all is forgiven and forgotten but it doesn't work that way. She can still hear Darhk's voice in her head. She can still feel the arrow. On her last night alive, she was turned into a pawn in a game. As devastating as it is to think about, the fact of the matter - as upsetting as it may be - is that things may have gone differently if her father had made different choices.

If he and Oliver had told her that her life was in danger, that Darhk was blackmailing him by threatening her and Mary, if they hadn't kept that a secret from her for months and justified it by telling themselves _oh, well, Laurel can take care of herself_ , things might be different. That's just something they're both going to have to live with now.

But all of that matters less than she thought it would. He is still her dad. She still loves him completely. She always will. They went through so much together, just the two of them, in the wake of Sara's death and her mother's abandonment. There is comfort and safety in his arms. There always will be.

''Laurel,'' she hears him whisper, sounding awed. ''Baby,'' he mumbles, ''it's you.'' When she hears his ragged voice, thick with tears, she can't help the tears that spring to her own eyes. She pauses, just for one split second, then she relaxes into the warmth of his arms, and she closes her eyes, home again.

.

.

.

It's been a long day. It has been the world's longest day.

After spending some much needed time with her parents, Laurel wisely allows Dean to take her home so she can take it easy for the rest of the day. She does not intend to sleep. There is way too much going on. She has things she needs to do. If she's alive now, she can't waste time. But Dean talks her into lying down for a few minutes, just to rest her eyes, and she's too exhausted to protest. As soon as her head hits the pillow, she's out. She sleeps for nearly five hours.

She wakes up once because she can hear Mary, overtired and grumpy, crying somewhere in the distance but she is so out of it that she can't move, can't make herself get out of bed to go check on her daughter. All she can do is lie there and listen to Mary throw a fit because she's hungry but she doesn't want goldfish crackers because it makes her feel bad to eat something that's smiling at her and she doesn't want grapes because ''they're not frozen!''

She must doze off again because the next thing she knows, the bedroom door is banging open and she hears Dean's voice shout, ''Mary Beatrice Winchester!''

Laurel lifts her head weakly, instantly spotting her little girl standing in the doorway. Mary looks grouchy and unhappy, she's still wearing her pink puffy coat, and for some reason, she's dragging both her Little Mermaid pillowcase and her patchy horse blanket after her. ''Mom!'' She screeches. ''Mommy!'' She scampers farther into the room, narrowly avoids tripping and falling on her face, and climbs up onto the edge of the bed. The second Dean appears in the doorway and says her name in his stern Dad Voice, she shrieks again and crawls over to Laurel.

''Mary,'' Dean's voice is softer this time. ''You can't bug Mom right now. She's not feeling well.''

Mary looks greatly offended. ''Not buggin' her,'' she declares, defensive. Then she tacks on an aggressive sign of, _Go away_.

He does not look impressed. Laurel is half-asleep and too tired to laugh, but she does snort at the look on his face. ''It's fine,'' she mumbles. She shoves herself up into a half sitting position. ''It's fine. She can stay.''

Mary sticks her tongue out at Dean.

''Mary,'' Laurel warns. ''That's not nice. Here, come here. Let's get your coat off.''

''Uh, no,'' Dean starts. ''She's refusing to - ''

Mary unzips her pink coat and holds her arms out, waiting to her mother to take the jacket off. She doesn't protest or squirm, just smiles innocently and slightly adoringly up at Laurel. Laurel glances at Dean just in time to see him throw his hands up in surrender and most likely exasperation. She manages to push back a small smile, helping her daughter out of her coat and handing it off to him. He accepts the tiny jacket. When Mary reaches into her Little Mermaid pillowcase and randomly pulls out a pair of swimming goggles with a declaration of, ''Daddy, I don't need these,'' he accepts those as well, although he looks mystified as to why she had them in the first place.

''We're okay,'' Laurel tells him, making sure to send him a soft smile to convince him. ''We're just going to lie down for a bit. Right, honeybee?''

''I'm not tired,'' Mary says, but flops down onto the bed anyway.

''That's okay,'' Laurel murmurs. ''We can just talk.''

That seems to make Mary happy. It usually does. She loves their ''talks.'' People don't tend to want to have deep, meaningful conversations with small children. Laurel has tried really hard, from the day Mary was born, to talk with her as much as possible. Not just because she does speech therapy exercises with her, but because kids have thoughts and opinions too. Some of the best conversations she has ever had have been with her daughter. Children's minds are strange places, yes, but that's not a bad thing. She doesn't always have the answers to the questions Mary asks, but they're often very valid questions. She does her best to make sure Mary knows that.

''Okay,'' says Dean. He waits for Laurel to settled back into the bed, watching as their daughter burrows herself into her side, and then he leans down to kiss their foreheads. ''Shout if you need anything.''

Laurel wishes he would join them because he looks like he's running on empty, but she knows he'd never admit to that, so she just nods and lets him slip out of the room with the pink jacket and the sparkly purple goggles. She looks down at Mary, tilting her lips up into a smile when she sees Mary's big green eyes peering up at her. She looks oddly pensive for a four year old. ''Something on your mind?''

Mary yawns and rests her good ear against Laurel's chest, listening for her heartbeat. ''You're still here.''

She runs her fingers through Mary's dirty blonde hair. ''Of course I am.''

''I like that,'' Mary decides. ''I like when you're here.''

Laurel swallows. ''Me too.'' She drops a kiss to the top of Mary's head and then requests, softly, ''Tell me about your birthday party, little bird.''

Mary lasts ten minutes, voice growing softer and softer, and then she's out. Laurel manages to keep her heavy eyelids open for a few minutes, one hand stroking Mary's hair gently, watching her sleep, and then she closes her eyes and drifts off again.

When she wakes up again, a few hours later, with Mary still tucked into her side, drooling on her shirt, the whole house smells delicious and her stomach is rumbling. She expects to venture out of the bedroom and find Dean and a small group of family setting the table. She does not expect to stagger groggily out of the bedroom, disheveled and still a little out of it, with an equally sleepy Mary on her hip, and find a house full of people waiting for her. That is exactly what happens.

Turns out when you die and then mysteriously come back to life, people become reluctant to leave your side for too long.

Listen, she does understand that. When Sara came back, when she really came back, Laurel couldn't stop staring at her. The night Sara's soul was restored, the night she was finally her again, alive and breathing, she was so tired that she could barely talk. They managed to get her into a warm shower and get some food into her, but then she was out like a light, tucked into her big sister's bed. Laurel didn't sleep a wink the entire night. She managed to convince her father to lie down on the couch and get some rest and Dean wound up falling asleep on her shoulder at about three in the morning, but Laurel didn't dare close her eyes. She just sat on the ground with her back against the wall, watching her sister's chest rise and fall until the sun rose.

So she gets it. She understands that her family and friends have missed her and that they just want to be with her right now. It's flattering, but it's overwhelming. There are a lot of people hovering around her and everybody is talking to her all at once. Her parents want to talk to her about getting legally resurrected as soon as possible. Oliver wants her back in the DA's office and he's already talking about press conferences and what to tell the public. The team wants to know when she's going to be ready to suit up and get Black Canary back on the streets. The Winchesters want to talk about the witches.

It's a lot. She hasn't even been back for twenty-four hours yet. She knows that these are things that need to be dealt with sooner or later but she has other plans for tonight. She wants to spend time with her daughter, who does not like all these people invading her space at all and who seems to have attached herself to her mother's hip. She wants some alone time with her husband. She really wants to talk to Thea. She feels like she has talked to everyone but Thea. She wants to check on her, see how she's doing, if she's okay, apologize for leaving and for scaring her when she came back so wrong, and she needs to thank her for everything she's done for Mary over the past seven months.

This would be easier to do if Thea wasn't avoiding her.

In a group setting, Thea's fine, but whenever Laurel tries to catch her alone, she makes some excuse to leave the room. The flat out rejection stings, and it is not them. Communication is the cornerstone of their relationship. That was an agreement they made a long time ago. When people around you are keeping secrets from you and turning your life into a string of miscommunication, you realize how much honesty matters. It doesn't feel right to suddenly not have that.

Eventually, the impromptu welcome home party starts to wind down and Laurel is able to sneak away for a few minutes to help Dean get Mary into bed. When she comes back out, ducking into the kitchen to pick at leftovers, she manages to catch part of a conversation between Oliver and Thea. They're sitting in the dining room, with an open box of what must be cold pizza in front of them, talking in low tones. Laurel doesn't bother to announce her presence, hiding behind the kitchen door.

''It's not that I'm not happy she's back,'' she's saying. ''Of course I am. This is a miracle.''

''I sense a _but_ coming,'' Oliver says. He doesn't even bother to look up from picking mushrooms off a slice of pizza.

''I don't know how to talk to her,'' Thea admits.

''What do you mean you don't know how to talk to her?'' He sounds confused. ''Speedy, it's just Laurel.''

''Except she's not,'' she insists. ''And we're not...'' There's a pause. Laurel presses herself up against the door, out of sight. ''She's not who we lost,'' says Thea, ''and we're not who she left. There's no way to go back to that.''

''...No,'' he agrees, after a minute. ''No, I guess there's not.''

Laurel risks another peek around the door just in time to see him slide the mushroom free slice of pizza over to her. He takes his own piece from the box in front of him, taking a bite of it, mushrooms and all. Thea doesn't even pick at the piece of pizza her big brother painstakingly de-mushroomed for her as if she's five years old.

''I mean, Ollie, I can't even listen to Landslide without breaking down in tears.''

''Well, that's weird.''

''The other day I was twenty minutes late to work because it came on the radio and I was crying in the parking garage.''

''That's why you were late?''

''I don't even know why,'' she says. ''It just reminded me of her.''

''Thea - ''

''We buried her,'' Thea points out. ''We mourned her. Are we just supposed to pretend that never happened?''

He sighs. ''I don't know.''

''I didn't think there would still be...'' She shakes her head. She tears off a tiny piece of the pizza crust and chews it slowly, most likely stalling. ''I used to think that if she would just come back home, everything would be okay. It's not okay. I don't understand. Where do we put the grief now?'' She sounds so helpless. ''I'm happy she's back,'' she says firmly. ''But she still left us here, Oliver. How do I look at her and not feel all that pain?''

''Well,'' Oliver tries. ''How do you look at me? I left you. For a lot longer than she ever did. How do you look at me without hurting?''

Thea doesn't answer the question.

Laurel steps back, away from the door. She has spent enough time comforting Thea over the years to know that it does still hurt to look at him. Maybe it always will. The truth, whether he ever acknowledges it or not, is that Thea's brother got on that boat and he never came back. Someone else did, wearing his face, talking in his voice, smiling his smile, but he is not him. It's an impossibility. The same thing happened to Sara. It makes sense that Thea would be worried about it happening to Laurel. Everything she's saying makes sense.

Sometimes people leave and they don't come back. Even when they're sitting right in front of you, they're not really there. All you're left with is the mess. Laurel would like to come back. She would like to be more than a mess.

She would like for Thea to be able to look at her.

Later that night, after an embarrassing attempt at a shower that ends in a panic attack and a bath instead, the house is quiet and Laurel is finally alone. Thea and Mary are both in bed, Dean is helping Sara get the couch ready because she refuses to leave, and Laurel is in the bedroom, in the quiet. She's doing her best not to think. She doesn't want to think about anything. She sits at her vanity and goes through her nightly ritual with numb fingers. She towel dries her wet hair, she combs it out, working on the tangles slowly and carefully, and then she piles it all on top of her head in a messy bun. She takes out her contacts. Puts on moisturizer. Looks down at her hands, free of bandages once again. She doesn't think she's going to bother bandaging them tonight.

She presses her lips together and stares at her reflection in the mirror. She looks like Laurel. She's not sure what she was expecting. It's not like there isn't tangible evidence of what she's gone through written all over her body. She is littered with cuts, scrapes, and bruises. Her whole body is a reminder of what happened to her. Why does she need more than that?

She folds her damaged hands in her lap and stares at the image of her pale face. ''You've made an awful mess of things,'' she tells the woman in the mirror.

She looks away from her reflection and rises to her feet, padding over to the closet and the full length mirror hanging on the back of the door. She pauses for just a second, and then she pulls the tie on her robe. She takes in the sight of her naked body with a sharp inhale, eyeing the bruises distastefully, raking her gaze over the cuts. Reluctantly, she settles her focus on the scars right above her right lung. From the arrow. The surgery. They look fresher than they should after seven months. The mottled flesh is still angry and pink. If she runs her hand over it, pokes at the wound, it still feels tender. She pinches her lips together and tilts her head to the side, eyes fixated on her scarred body.

Generally, she does not give much thought to scars. They exist, she has them, people she loves have them, but that's about it. She's not traumatized by them and she's not turned on by them. They are just there. Scars exist to remind you that you lived through whatever experience left them behind. These ones are different. She didn't live through it. She is alive again, but she did not survive that arrow.

Everything else on her body belongs to her.

The tattoos - _hers_. She picked them out. They mean something to her. She chose to have them put on her body, to keep them with her every day of her life, because of what they mean to her. She wanted them. Her beating heart is drawn in ink on her skin. These tattoos are a part of her. Manifestations of important times of her life scrawled on her skin for the rest of her life.

The stretchmarks, those silvery strips of flesh on her abdomen, hips, and breasts - a result of carrying her daughter. Pregnancy was the hardest thing she's ever done and she hated every minute of it, but it also gave her the most amazing gift she has ever been given. Mary is her entire life, her entire world, so she will wear those stretchmarks with pride.

All of her other scars, whether they're from saving her city or some kitchen mishap when she was sixteen, are all representations of choices she made. They are things she survived, mistakes she learned from. Her body is a map of where she has been. How far she has come. It is a map of her heart. Everything here is hers.

Everything, that is, except for these new scars.

Gently, she brushes her fingers over the raised skin and gulps down the bile rising in her throat. This is Darhk's. This part of her belongs to him. Just the thought makes her skin crawl. He is deader than a doornail now, torn to pieces by an enraged Winchester, body salted, and burned, the ashes separated and buried in so many different corners of the country that no one will ever be able to piece him back together again no matter how dark the magic. He's dead, but he still won. She shivers. It's not because she's cold. She has to look away from the scar, swallowing hard.

''You know,'' a voice says from behind her. ''You could cover that up.''

Laurel startles, pulling her robe shut and whirling around. Dean is just stepping into the room, closing the door behind him. She relaxes when she sees the small smile on his face. ''You mean with makeup?'' She closes the closet, hiding the mirror away.

''You could use makeup,'' he says. ''I was thinking something more permanent.''

That _is_ tempting. It does sound like something she would do. She tends to commemorate the big events in her life with tattoos, and what's bigger than dying and being resurrected? ''I don't know what I would put there,'' she says. ''Maybe you could draw me something.''

He laughs. ''I don't think you want something I've drawn on your body forever.''

''Don't be so modest,'' she scoffs. ''I've seen the bestiary.'' She wanders back over to the vanity, poking at his lower back with a grin as she passes by. She plops down on her chair, glancing at her reflection once more. She rests her elbows on the table, propping her chin up in her hands and watching in the mirror as he turns his back to her and peels his Henley over his head. A slow, sly grin spreads across her lips.

It's nice to know that even after seven months and literal death, the sight of him shirtless still gets her motor revving. High five for their marriage. She straightens up, absently playing with a tube of lipstick as she ogles her husband. He tugs on a gray t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants and doesn't even notice her staring at him. He looks distracted. She bets she could get him to focus on her.

''Is it weird that I'm not tired?'' She asks, swiveling in her chair.

''Kind of. You did have a nap,'' he says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

''I can't seem to shut my brain off,'' she tells him. She stands and makes her way over to him. She thinks about her options. It has been an awfully long day. They should get some rest. Or maybe they could just sleep in tomorrow. It's been such a long time, you see. Seven months for him. Years for her. It would be nice to just be with him. She's missed sex. She's not ashamed to admit that. It would help to get her mind off everything that's happening. He's always been good at getting her to the point of no return. ''Maybe,'' she proposes, stepping into his space, ''you could help me with that.''

He looks up at her. More specifically, he looks at her lips. ''Laurel,'' he says. That's all he says. He sounds uncharacteristically unsure.

She says, voice low, ''I missed you.''

He licks his lips. ''Are you sure?''

''Am I sure that I missed you?''

''You know that's not what I'm asking.''

''Am I sure about having sex with my husband? Hmm.'' She ghosts her fingers over the back of his neck and then runs them through his hair. She pretends to mull over the question. ''Pretty sure.''

He presses his forehead to her hip, chuckling warmly. When he pulls away, one of his hands moves to fiddle with the tie. For someone so apparently nervous about this, he sure seems impatient to get her naked. ''I just meant - We don't have to do this tonight. You just got back. If you need time - ''

''Dean.'' She lowers herself down onto his lap, winding an arm around his neck. ''Do you think I'm doing this as a _favor_ to you? I know we don't have to do this. I want to.'' She leans down to catch his lips in hers. She knows she's been through a lot, but she is not some delicate flower. She is capable of having sex. Plus, orgasms are proven to help with stress. Usually, he's all for helping her de-stress. ''Unless you're not up to it,'' she mumbles against his lips, even though she doesn't think that's going to be a problem.

''Seven months,'' he groans out. ''Trust me. I'm up.''

''I noticed,'' she hums.

''We're going slow,'' he says, as he unties her robe. ''I'm serious. You tell me to stop, and I'll stop.''

''I know. I trust you. I've always trusted - '' Her sentence is drowned out by a shrieking giggle as he flips her over onto her back and covers her mouth with his. She kisses him back, fingernails scratching down the back of his neck. Dean is, not unexpectedly, a good kisser. He does this thing with his tongue, this incredibly pleasurable swirl thing, and it never fails to send electric shivers down her spine. When he kisses her, she feels it everywhere. Kissing is just the tip of the iceberg. For instance, that swirl thing he does with his tongue? It's even better when he does it when he's going down on her.

Just FYI.

The thing about being with someone for the better part of a decade is that, eventually, you know all their moves. You know where things are going to go. That is not necessarily a bad thing. Not at all. In fact, it can even make things better. It ups the anticipation. Especially when you know it's going to end somewhere amazing. And this is going to end somewhere amazing. He's going to make sure of that, she can tell.

Dean has moved his lips to her collarbone, seemingly intent on marking her and giving her a hickey like they're two kids in the back of his car. He's pushed her robe out of the way to splay his hand over her bare abdomen. When his hand starts moving south and he pulls away from her, she knows exactly what's about to happen. Laurel is so ready for this. It's been years. It hasn't really been years but it feels like it's been years and she really needs this. She suspects he does too. His mouth is hot on her skin and he's just reached her belly button, fully intending on moving lower, and then -

The door opens.

There's no time to react. She does hear the doorknob turn but there's no time to call out a warning or push him away before the door opens. There is a high-pitched shriek and then something hits Dean on the back.

''Oh my god,'' Thea's voice cries out, sounding startled and mortified.

Laurel doesn't say anything because she's laughing too hard, but she throws a hand over her face. Dean hurries to cover her up with her robe, pulling it around her body, and she then hears his voice, incredulous and offended as he questions, ''Did you just throw your phone at me?''

''I don't know!'' Thea yelps. ''I panicked!''

Finally, Laurel is able to pull herself together enough to look at the interloper.

Thea is standing in the doorway, red as a tomato, hands clapped over her eyes, and she looks positively horrified. ''I can't unsee that,'' she moans. ''My entire life flashed before my eyes.'' Dramatic, but okay. ''Why does this always happen to me?''

''Because you don't - '' Dean stops, abruptly. ''Wait, _always_? How many times have you walked in on people having sex?''

Thea doesn't answer, but she groans in humiliation.

''Maybe you need to learn how to knock,'' he suggests.

''Maybe you need to learn how to lock your damn door,'' Thea bits back, though there's no real heat or malice in her voice. She still has her eyes squeezed shut and her hands pressed against them.

Laurel calmly ties her robe shut and pats down her hair. She thinks, in all honesty, that it's a good thing Thea interrupted when she did. A few minutes later, Dean would've had his head buried between her legs, and then the poor kid really would've gotten an eyeful. ''You don't need to keep your hands over your eyes, you know,'' she points out kindly.

Dean gets to his feet, retrieving Thea's phone and slipping it into the pocket of the oversized red hoodie that undoubtedly used to belong to Roy.

''I'm choosing to err on the side of caution,'' Thea says.

''Hey,'' Sara's voice is a mask of forced cheer as she pokes her head into the bedroom. ''Did I hear screaming?'' She's wearing the white fluffy bathrobe that Dean stole, without regret, from the hotel in Big Sur and her hair is twisted up in a towel on the top of her head. Her right hand is noticeably hidden behind her back. She's undoubtedly holding her bo staff. Which is marginally better than the knife she keeps in her boot. She can be jumpy. She narrows her eyes when she catches sight of Thea. She looks at Dean and Laurel. She looks back at Thea, still with her hands over her eyes. ''Oh,'' she smirks. ''Okay, good.'' She steps into full view, twirling the staff lightly and then tucking it under her arm. ''That's a relief. I thought something terrible happened - ''

''Something terrible _did_ happen,'' Thea protests.

'' - But you just walked in on your parents having sex.''

''They're not my - ''

''We weren't having sex,'' Dean cuts in.

''Don't worry about it,'' Sara pats Thea on the shoulder. ''We've all been there. When I was seven - ''

''Oh, please don't tell the hide and seek story again,'' Laurel blurts out. ''I want to have sex tonight. I don't want to think about my parents.''

''Eh, point taken,'' Sara says. ''Anyway,'' she looks back over at Thea. ''It's been like half a year, dude. Of course they're gonna fuck tonight. Probably more than once. In different positions and everything.''

''Oh, god,'' Thea moans. ''Please don't talk about them _fucking_ in _different positions_.''

''Okay, they'll just stay in the one position.''

''Did you think we were sexless beings?'' Dean asks, eyebrow arched.

''Yes!''

''Oh.'' He blinks. Crosses his arms. ''Right. Well, okay then. You're right. We don't have sex. In fact, we're virgins. Mary was an immaculate conception. Better?''

Thea sighs heavily. ''No.''

''Thea,'' Laurel pipes up, sofly. ''Honey, did you need something?'' ''No,'' is her instant answer. ''I mean, well, yes. But - No. I don't - I was just going to ask you a question about work but it can - it can wait until morning.''

''Good to hear,'' Dean says, propping his hands up on his hips. He sounds remarkably calm. ''Because guess what? We're not sexless beings. So if there's nothing else, it would probably be best for you kids to give Mom and Dad some alone time because I would really like to eat my wife out until she can't form words anymore.''

In response to that, Thea sputters and chokes on air, looking like her entire life has just been ruined. Even Sara wrinkles her nose in disgust. Laurel buries her face in her hands to cover up her blush but can't bring herself to reprimand him because - well, that sounds fucking awesome, to be honest. She's going to hold him to that. If she opens her mouth and tries to speak right now, all that's going to come out is a sharp order of ''get out'' directed at the girls, and she doesn't want to be rude.

Dean does not seem to share that concern. ''This is going to happen,'' he informs them, blunt as ever. ''I don't care if you're in the room or not. So you two have some choices to make.''

There's a pause and then Thea, who still has her eyes stubbornly shut, turns to Sara - or at least to where she thinks Sara is - and pleads, ''Get me out of here.''

Sara nods shortly. ''Yep.'' She loops her arm through Thea's and helpfully leads her out of the room. ''Happy humping, you two,'' she singsongs over her shoulder. ''Don't forget how thin the walls in this house are!'' She shoots them a wicked grin, and then she and Thea drift away.

As soon as they're gone, Dean hurries to shut the door after them. ''Wow,'' Laurel murmurs, watching him somewhat frantically lock the door. ''That was quite the declaration you made.''

He turns to face her, sheepish. ''That didn't kill the mood, did it?''

She laughs, low in her throat. ''Honey, the only thing that would kill the mood is if you can't finish what you started,'' she says, and then drops the robe. ''I heartily suggest following through.''

He blinks, looking her up and down for a lingering moment. ''Anything you want, pretty bird.''

.

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 **April, 2016**

 _She tells Dean that she is going to take a bath._

 _She needs some time alone, is what she says. She needs to relax and weigh the pros and cons of the job offer that's on the table. She pins her hair up, she puts on her bathrobe, she tucks her lavender, honey, and vanilla aromatherapy candle under her arm along with the book she's in the middle of, and then she makes a big show of shuffling out into the living room and informing him, rather loudly, ''Okay, I'm going to have my bath now. So I'll - I'll be,'' she gestures awkwardly, ''in the bathroom.''_

 _Dean and Mary both stop what they're doing to send her a near identical look of confusion. He says, after a beat of silence, ''...Okay?''_

 _''Have fun,'' Mary adds._

 _''Mary and I are going to watch a movie before bed.''_

 _She nods happily. She's sitting on the couch in her pajamas, bundled in blankets and surrounded by toys. Her stuffed shark is curled protectively under her arm and she's pressing random buttons on the remote control. ''The Good Dinosaur,'' she chirps. ''He's a good dinosaur. Nice and green.'' She tilts her head to peer up at her mother with her big eyes. ''Don't have a bath, Mommy. Baths are yucky. Come sit here.'' She drops the remote and pats the spot on the couch next to her. ''You can hold Agnes,'' she says, holding out a creepy looking doll with one eye._

 _''Oh,'' Laurel shifts from foot to foot. Honestly, she would love to. She would much rather curl up on the couch with her daughter and weird looking Agnes and watch The Good Dinosaur but she kind of has a thing that she needs to do. ''Um, well - ''_

 _''Maybe later, honeybee,'' Dean cuts in gently. He flops down on the couch next to Mary and steals the remote before she can get to it again. ''Moms need baths too.''_

 _Mary looks vaguely annoyed by this but concedes. ''Wash behind your ears,'' she advises seriously._

 _Dean nods, also looking gravely serious._

 _Laurel laughs, shifting everything into one hand so she ran run her fingers through Mary's soft honey blonde hair. ''Thanks for the advice, pumpkin,'' she says, leaning down to kiss her daughter's cheek. ''I'll remember that. I'll try to be quick so I can watch the end of the movie with you, okay?''_

 _Mary nods._ Okay _, she signs. ''Agnes will be waiting for you,'' she says, which sounds slightly threatening given how terrifying Agnes is, but Laurel gives her two thumbs up anyway._

 _''Why don't I get to hold Agnes?'' Dean asks, offended._

 _Mary frowns at him. ''She doesn't like you.''_

 _Again: Creepy and ominous._

 _Laurel coughs to cover a snort of laughter at the look on Dean's face._

 _''You can hold Basil,'' Mary says, shoving a stuffed giraffe at him. ''He likes you, and he likes to eat small oranges.''_

 _''Oh,'' Dean nods, but can't quite manage to hold back his bewilderment. ''Just the small ones? He doesn't eat big oranges?''_

 _Mary lowers her head so she can look at him through her eyelashes with a look on her face like she thinks he has lost his mind for suggesting such a thing. ''Dad,'' she sighs with the kind of exasperation more fitting for a thirteen year old rather than a three year old. ''That's silly.''_

 _''Yeah, Dad,'' Laurel clicks her tongue. ''Don't be silly. Of course he doesn't eat the big oranges. They're too big.'' She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at him. ''Honestly, man. Keep up.''_

 _The sound of his laughter follows her all the way down the hall._

 _Laurel does not have a bath._

 _She locks herself in the bathroom, she draws a bath, she uses her favourite bubble bath, puts a few drops of essential oil in the water so the bathroom smells like roses and lavender, and she lights the candle. She does not take a bath. Instead, she takes a small, squished box from the pocket of her robe and flips it over to read the directions on the back of the box. It's a whole big production, and she's honestly not sure why she's working so hard to keep what she's doing a secret. It shouldn't even be a secret. What she should do is march right back out there, grab Dean, and tell him everything so that they can do this together._

 _That's not what she does. She perches on the edge of the bathtub and turns the box over in her hands a few times. Eventually, she tears it open, sets everything out on the counter, and reads the instructions exactly four and a half times. She doesn't need to read the instructions. She's done this before. More than once. She's just stalling._

 _She can't stall forever. Hastily, she checks the lock on the bathroom door, reads the instructions one more time, and then follows them exactly. Once it's all ready, she's set the timer she snatched from the kitchen, and all that's left to do is wait, she sits down on the closed lid of the toilet and tries her best to not have a panic attack. She's not sure why she's so scared. This isn't like before._

 _She is not twenty-two, angry, grieving, and terrified that her unfaithful, sister-killing, dead boyfriend might have left her with more than bitterness and pain._

 _She is not twenty-four and worried that a nomadic monster hunter might have knocked her up after they had sloppy 'congratulations to us on not being dead' adrenaline sex for a weekend in Seattle._

 _She is not twenty-six, constantly stressed out, and waiting for a phone call informing her that her depressed alcoholic fiancé has wrapped his car around a tree or thrown himself in front of a Leviathan because he wants to die more than he wants to marry her._

 _She is thirty, almost thirty-one, married, financially okay, emotionally okay, and she is already a mom. She loves being a mom. It's the best thing she's ever done. Why wouldn't she want to do that again?_

 _Laurel stands to pace the length of the bathroom a few times before busying herself with tidying up the permanently untidy space. It doesn't matter how many times they deep clean this bathroom, it always ends up a mess. Hazards of having four people live in a house with only one tiny - and outdated - bathroom._

 _It's not just the idea of having to go through another pregnancy that's freaking her out. She's worried about the pain, sure. She's worried about the sickness, the loss of control, the violating feeling of being invaded, and she's definitely worried about how the influx of hormones could affect her mental state. But none of that is the main source of her current anxiety. She will go through pregnancy for another baby. She's going to complain about it nonstop to Dean and she'll be grumpy as all hell, but she'll do it._

 _What's intimidating to her right now is the unknown. She knows that she going to hate being pregnant. She doesn't know anything else. She doesn't know if the baby will be born with Pendred, if they'll still want her for the DA's position if she's pregnant, how Mary will adjust to being a big sister, if Dean will be able to handle a baby and a preschooler on his own while she's at work, and she doesn't know how she can possibly love another child the way she loves Mary. She knows that's a common fear for many second time parents and she has heard that, most of the time, it is a ridiculous concern. Doesn't mean she's not still concerned. She loves Mary so much. More than anything. More than everything. It's hard to believe she could ever love another child that much._

 _She supposes, at the end of the day, big life changes are always scary. She licks her lips and sinks back onto the closed toilet seat lid. She rakes a hand through her hair and inhales the soothing scent of lavender. The timer beeps and she quickly silences it, but doesn't move to look at the test. She doesn't need to._

 _Her period is over two weeks late. Her boobs hurt. She's exhausted all the time. Coffee turns her stomach. She hasn't been able to keep her morning avocado toast down in four days. And yesterday found her at the bodega near her old apartment to pick up a bag of the ginger chews that used to get her through the work day when she was pregnant with Mary. It's not a question. She takes in a deep breath, rises to her feet, and picks up the pregnancy test. There is no dramatic moment where she takes a long pause and then flips it over, stunned beyond belief or instantly emotional and weepy at the results. She just grabs the test, looks at the results, and - yep. The results are exactly what she expected. This is not a surprise. She looks up at her reflection, catching sight of the tiny smile starting on her lips._

 _Okay, well. That's that then. She's pregnant._

 _Laurel wraps the test in toilet paper and buries it at the bottom of the trashcan, which feels overdramatic, but she wants to be the one to tell Dean and she's not sure how she's going to do that just yet. She'd like it to be better than how she told him she was pregnant the first time. For starters, she doesn't want to be crying, sick, and scared out of her mind. That would be a plus._

 _Maybe she'll get him a card. One of those super cheesy ones with a flowery, sugary poem inside. Charlie's in town right now. Maybe she'll help her plan some elaborate surprise. She loves elaborate surprises. Or she'll get him a onesie that says ''coming soon'' or something like that. She could get Mary to help out. Maybe put her in an obnoxious 'big sister' shirt that says something like ''no longer the only pumpkin in the patch'' and wait until he notices. The other day while she was at Target, she saw this shirt that said ''a little birdie told me a secret...'' on the front and on the back it said ''I'm going to be a big sister!'' That would be fitting. He makes so many bird jokes these days that she feels like he would really appreciate that one._

 _Laurel drains the bathtub, blows out the candle, and ducks out of the bathroom. She stops to dump her things in the bedroom and then she makes her way out into the living room again. Mary is still on the couch, clutching her shark, one hand playing with the hem of her blanket like she does when she's exhausted. Dean is slumped beside her, slouched down with his feet up on the coffee table, holding onto Basil the giraffe. They're both angled towards each other, heads together, and they both look half-asleep. She doesn't announce her presence right away, hanging back a minute to just look at them._

 _Dean spots her pretty fast, lifting his head to look over at her with a smile. ''That was quick.''_

 _She shrugs her shoulders, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. ''I didn't want to miss the movie.'' She takes her spot on Mary's other side, tucking her feet under her. When Mary, half asleep, hands her the unsettling Agnes doll, she takes it. She doesn't pay much attention to the movie. Her focus is reserved for her family; the warm weight of her daughter, the comforting presence of her husband, and a brand new alien growing inside of her._

 _She thinks they can do it. It's scary and it will change their lives forever, but it's a good kind of scary, a welcome kind of change._

 _Tomorrow, she's going to call her doctor. On Friday, she has an appointment with her psychiatrist and she's going make sure to discuss how this could impact her recovery and everything she's living with. She's also going to accept the job offer. She knows that Dean has been on the fence about it - and so has she, if she's being honest - but she thinks it's for the best. He made valid points when they discussed it earlier. He had reminded her that working in the DA's office was supposed to be temporary, that her plan had been to stay there for a few years to make enough money to rebuild CNRI with Joanna. He told her that the last time he had seen her truly happy and fulfilled in regards to her legitimate job was back at CNRI. And all of that was true._

 _When she first started at the DA's office, the objective had been to put food on the table and stay there for a few years, just long enough to build up her bank account so she could start CNRI back up; pull it from the ashes with her bare hands and make it something bigger, something stronger, something even better than it was. That was the plan. Plans change. Such is the way of life. Joanna is happy at her new firm, kicking ass, taking names, and making big bucks. Laurel has a new path in life with the Black Canary and Team Arrow. It's a different life now. Not one she ever expected to have but a good one nonetheless._

 _Becoming the District Attorney had never been something she was particularly interested in. It just wasn't at the top of her career to-do list. However, the position comes with a substantial pay raise and that paycheck would be utterly invaluable right now. If they are going to have two little kids, one with a medical condition, potentially a new house to fit everyone in, and only one income then they need that income to be significant. By accepting this job offer, she would be able to provide for her family, to give them the life they deserve to have. Dean loves being a stay at home dad so much. It suits him. Mary adores having him around. Laurel desperately doesn't want to take them away from each other. Taking this job is what makes the most sense for her family._

 _Above all else, they are her responsibility. She has to give them their best shot. She wants to give them a happy life._

 _She'll have to hang up her mask. It's unavoidable. Even if you erase the inevitable time constraints and the ethics violations of being a vigilante and the DA, she's pregnant now. At the very least, she's going to need to take an extended maternity leave. She can't very well run around jumping rooftops with a baby bump weighing her down. First of all, her suit is leather, tight, and very unforgiving. She won't even fit in it in a few weeks. Second of all, it's way too dangerous for both her and the baby. She has to give it up. If she is going to be the District Attorney, if she is going to have a new baby, a new life, then she has to let Black Canary go._

 _She chews on her lower lip thoughtfully and stubbornly ignores the pain of loss that starts in her chest at the mere thought of quitting. She looks over at Mary, seconds away from being fast asleep beside her. She looks at Dean, half watching the movie and half watching Mary. She exhales._

 _The loss will hurt, no doubt about it, but it will be worth it in the end. There will be others. Someone will fill up the space she took. Star City will always need heroes and as long as there are still good people here, there will always be someone to fight for it. Maybe that's not meant to be her. Maybe it's time for her to focus on her own wellbeing, her own happiness, her own life. Find some form of peace that doesn't come from violence. A bird cannot fly forever._

 _The quiet sound of her phone beeping with a text notification over on the dining room table yanks her out of her racing thoughts. It's a welcome distraction. She murmurs an apology and carefully disentangles herself from Mary. Reluctantly, she slips out of her daughter's grasp and moves away from her. She pads into the dining room and digs around in the depths of her giant mom purse until she manages to fish out her crappy phone with the cracked screen, held together by duct tape and sheer dumb luck. The text is from Oliver. She has to swallow down a sigh when she sees it. Partially because it's hard to read through the cracked screen and partially because of the text itself. It's short, curt, and not all that informative. All it says is that there's an all hands on deck situation and is she coming tonight or not?_

 _Reflexively, she starts to reply that she'll be there as soon as possible but she gets halfway through typing the text and then she stops. Oh, wait. She's pregnant. She probably shouldn't, right? Technically, Blob #2 is pretty well protected by her uterus and pelvic bone right now. And the suit, while not made of Kevlar, does offer at least some additional protection. She doesn't want to make this a regular thing but chances are, everything will be fine if she goes this one time. Then again, best not to risk it._

 _She starts to type out a response, picking through excuses - sprained ankle, food poisoning, cramps, lost a toe in a freak lawnmower accident, Dean's handcuffed to the bed and she lost the keys again so she has to stay home and pick the lock - and finally decides on a vague text of,_ Sorry. Can't tonight. Too sick to leave bed. Would just be a liability.

 _She feels like that's convincing enough. She doesn't send the text. She just can't bring herself to hit send. It feels wrong to leave them high and dry like this. Especially since she already left them in the lurch less than a week ago under the guise of food poisoning. Plus, if she plays hooky, it's just another thing for Oliver to hold over her head, to use against her, a justification for the way he treats her, a reason why she's not good enough, not strong enough, not committed enough, just not enough. He will never respect her. She presses her lips together._

 _On the other hand, if she's going to quit anyway..._

 _One last fight. It does sound tempting. One last chance to do some good before she leaves that life behind her. A grand send off. A goodbye before the bird flies away for good, so to speak. She thinks she can handle that. She deletes the text excusing herself from Canary duty._ On my way _, she types instead, and hits send without a second thought._

 _''Who was that?'' Dean's voice is low and tired in her ear as he comes up behind her. One of his hands snakes around her waist, coming to rest atop her abdomen. He's nuzzling at her neck, and just the familiar feel of his body against hers is making her regret not telling Ollie to leave her alone for the night._

 _''Oliver,'' she says, apologetically. ''Something's going down tonight.''_

 _He groans into her neck. ''Thought you were takin' the night off.''_

 _She sighs and turns around in his grip, winding her arms around his neck. ''I know, I'm sorry,'' she winces. ''A Canary's work is never done.''_

 _He doesn't dispute that. Doesn't start a fight or try to guilt her into staying. He just leans in to kiss the side of her mouth and she hears him say, softly, ''Always trying to save the world.''_

 _The words, the familiar echo of Tommy, of Sara, never fail to make something inside of her flutter with determination. She pulls away from him with a smile. ''That's what they tell me.'' She pats his cheek softly, and slips out of his embrace. ''Probably best if I change first,'' she says. ''Can't save the world in my pajamas.''_

 _''I would sincerely love to see you try,'' he says. ''Especially if the pajamas are those barely there plaid shorts you wear in the summer.''_

 _''Perv,'' she snorts, offering him a wink and a smile before she turns away to stride down the hall to the bedroom._

 _Tonight. That's what she decides as she is regrettably peeling off her comfy pajamas and tugging her jeans back on. She's going to tell him about the baby tonight. As soon as she gets home. She thinks he'll be happy. She hopes he'll be happy. Why wouldn't he be? Their family is growing. This is good news._

 _When she hurries back out into the living room, he's dropping a granola bar, a small tupperware container of almonds, and her water bottle into her purse. Because he does things like that. ''Babe,'' he's saying, popping a few almonds into his mouth and frowning down at her phone. ''Your phone is shit. We need to get you a new one.''_

 _''I know,'' she sighs, stuffing her feet into her worn out Converse. ''Add that to the list of things I need to do.'' She shrugs into her coat, pulling her hair out. ''I'm hoping this doesn't take too long.'' Wishful thinking, most likely. ''When I get home, I need to - We need to talk about something, okay?''_

 _''Sounds ominous,'' he says, tucking her disaster of a phone into a side pocket on her purse and zipping it up. ''Is this a good talk or a bad talk?''_

 _''It's good,'' she assures him. She can't help the grin that splits across her lips. ''It's really good. I promise.''_

 _''Then I'll try really hard to be awake when you get home.''_

 _She laughs lightly and quickly dashes over to Mary, now fast asleep, to give her a kiss goodbye. Normally, this would be the part where she tells her, ''No matter where I go, a piece of me will always be right here with you.'' That's their nightly ritual these days. Usually, she doesn't leave the house without it. Cheesy, yes, but it makes her feel better about having to leave every night. She's missed a lot of bedtimes over the past year and a half. It's hard to let go of the guilt over that. Suppose that's one good thing about giving up Black Canary. She won't have to miss anything anymore._

 _But Mary's sleeping tonight. A kiss will have to do. Laurel brushes her lips across Mary's forehead and shrugs off the inexplicable ache as a minor consequence of an unexpected change in her routine._

 _''Okay, pretty bird,'' Dean says, standing by the door with her purse. ''Have fun beating the shit out of criminals. Come home safe.''_

 _She smirks at him, easy and self-assured. ''I always do,'' she chirps, before she pecks him on the lips and takes her purse from him. ''I'll be home as soon as I can,'' she says, hefting the purse over her shoulder. She can't help but add, as she's stepping out the door, ''I love you.''_

 _It feels important to say that tonight._

 _She doesn't leave right away. Dean retreats back inside, shutting the door behind him, and she gets into her car, but she can't make herself leave right away. She watches the front window of the house, catching sight of him moving around through the open curtains. He doesn't see her, he isn't paying attention, but she can see him and something makes her stop and watch. She watches him lean out of sight to lift Mary into his arms. The little girl sleepily winds her arms around his neck and drops her head onto his shoulder. He doesn't know that Laurel is watching them, so he doesn't bother to stop, to look out at her. He takes Mary off to bed, and Laurel watches as her husband and daughter leave her line of sight, disappearing down the hall._

 _A strange, unsettling sense of overwhelming sadness takes hold. It washes over her when she is left alone in the dark without them. She can't explain it. It certainly doesn't make sense. It's just this uncomfortable, uneasy feeling of dread. For a brief moment, her throat closes up, the shadows of her safe neighborhood somehow seem menacing and hostile, sharper than usual in some way, and everything is eerily still, silent, and very dark._

 _There is a moment where she is sitting in the dark, looking at the warm light spilling from her home, and she feels this bizarre feeling of wrongness. She doesn't know how to explain it. It is not a feeling she has ever felt before. She's not sure there's a name for it. It's a little bit like fear, a little bit like grief, and a little bit like nausea._

 _She wants to get out of the car. She wants to walk back into that house and stay there. Tuck her daughter into bed. Sit in the comfort of her living room with her husband and tell him that they're going to have another baby. That she's taking an indefinite break from saving the world and he doesn't have to worry about her anymore. Suddenly, without warning, she just wants to go home._

 _She doesn't._

 _She ignores the feeling of alarm, the foreboding shadows, the shivers running up her spine, the unexpected urge to go back to her family and stay home tonight, and she starts the car. She decides it's not important. Maybe it's just hormones. It was a split second feeling anyway. It doesn't matter. She has things to do. It's her last night as Black Canary, and she wants to go out with a bang._

 _''You and me, kid,'' she murmurs, patting her stomach gently. ''Tonight, we're going to soar.''_

.

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 **end part four**

* * *

 **Additional spoilery warnings for this chapter: It's revealed that Laurel suffered a miscarriage on April 6th and the event is talked about throughout the chapter. There is also a part where Laurel thinks back to Mary's birth, so blanket warnings for miscarriage and childbirth apply.**


	5. I've Built My Life Around You

_AN: Happy new year!_

* * *

 **How the Light Gets In**

 _Written by Becks Rylynn_

* * *

.

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 **Part Five:**

 _I've Built My Life Around You_

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 **October, 2012**

 _Storming out after an argument with your spouse is never a good idea. It may seem like a good idea at the time because dramatic exits always feel satisfying in the moment, but it's never worth it. Nothing good can come from it. Storming out of your home at 41 weeks (and one day) pregnant after a ridiculous argument with your husband that was fueled by hormones, exhaustion, and anxiety is an even worse idea._

 _''This one's on me,'' Laurel sighs, winding her scarf around her neck. ''There's no way around that.''_

 _It was such a stupid argument too. It didn't even need to be an argument. She doesn't know why she made it one. She's not herself right now. She's eight days overdue, she feels like crap, she looks like crap, she's been dealing with on and off contractions, and neither one of them got much sleep last night. She is just so sick and tired of being pregnant. She wants her baby but the whole process of getting there is garbage. She is never doing this again. They're one and done. She's lost track of how many times she's said that over the past nine months._

 _Everyone keeps encouraging her, telling that she's in the home stretch now and it's going to happen soon because it has to. Dean keeps thanking her for what she's doing for them. Alex keeps reassuring her, with a wink and one of those calm smiles of hers, ''Any day now.'' They're all so optimistic. The baby has dropped, she's in the right position, Laurel was two centimeters dilated at her last appointment, and she's been contracting for weeks. It has to be soon, right? What exactly is the alternative?_

 _Last night, when those pesky contractions started up yet again, they got so bad that she couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, pacing wasn't helping, and all she could do was kneel in the bathtub with the hot water spraying down on her back. She had been so sure that it was finally the real thing. Dean was adorably excited, telling her that she was doing great, that he was so proud of her, and promising her that they were going to meet their daughter soon. Yet here she is. No real labor. No baby. Still pregnant as fuck._

 _This is just her life now. She's going to be pregnant forever. Whenever someone assures her that it'll happen any time now, she just huffs bitterly. She has tried everything to get this show on the road. Spicy foods, as much walking as she can stand with her messed up hips, bouncing on her exercise ball, dates, pineapple, red raspberry leaf tea, acupuncture, membrane sweeps, pumping, a lot of sex, and none of these things are doing a damn thing._

 _It sucks. She feels like her body is failing her right now. She wants wine and sushi and soft cheeses and vodka and beer. She doesn't even like beer but she wants some. She wants to meet her daughter. She doesn't want to keep having to walk around feeling like there's a bowling ball between her legs because the baby is so freaking low. She doesn't want to be pregnant anymore._

 _But none of that is Dean's fault._

 _Technically, an argument can be made that if he hadn't stuck his unwrapped dick in her nine months ago then she wouldn't be suffering through the horrifying consequences - which may or may not be exactly what she yelled at him as she was storming out of the apartment - but that's just spiteful. Besides, it takes two to tango. An argument could also be made that if she hadn't gotten strep and forgotten that antibiotics can mess with the pill then they wouldn't be here._

 _''I was unfair to him,'' she admits. ''All he did was say that he didn't know how to help me. I don't know why I flipped out on him. Of course he doesn't know how to help me. I don't even know how to help me. This is hard,'' the last part comes out in a quiet, mumbled confession. ''I don't just mean this pregnancy. I mean marriage. I feel like everything's different between us now. We're communicating differently. I know we're still finding our footing but I didn't expect...this.'' She lifts her gaze, tilting her head to the side curiously. ''You were married for nearly 62 years. You always made it look so easy. How did you do it?''_

 _Her companion doesn't answer her. This is not a surprise considering he's been dead for almost four months, but it's still disappointing._

 _She sucks in some of the chilly autumn air, and then releases a breath. She looks away from her grandfather's gravestone. This might have been a bad idea. She's never been here alone before. Every Sunday, rain or shine, she and Dean make the trip to the nursing home, gather up her grandmother, and then they bring her here. That's the way it is now. They bring her here so she can putter around, replacing wilted flowers and getting irrationally angry at the leaves for daring to disrupt Richard Drake's monument, and then they take her out to lunch._

 _It's never easy. It's hard to stand there and watch her grieving grandmother painstakingly stuff leaf after leaf into a plastic grocery bag to clear the area, pretending her hands aren't shaking because she misses her husband so much her body doesn't know what to do. Somehow, it's even harder to be here alone, without the sound of her grandmother's voice and without Dean's steadying hand on her back. Suddenly, Laurel is very aware of the silence where her grandfather's voice used to be. He was so rarely silent when he was here. He liked to fill silences. Cheesy jokes, lively debates, whistling, singing. He didn't like the quiet. What was comforting to him was the noise of life. It's too eerily quiet in the cemetery for it to feel like home._

 _Laurel stuffs her cold hands into the pockets of her hoodie. She stares at the grave in front of her, watching the leaves swirl in the breeze, trying not to think about how excited her grandparents were when she told them she was having a baby. Her grandfather wanted to meet her daughter. He tried so hard to stay long enough to meet her._

 _Her phone chimes in her pocket and she jumps, blinking back tears. She sniffles, wiping at her eyes quickly, and digs her phone out. Dean, again. This is like his eighth text in an hour. She hasn't answered any of them. She also hasn't answered any of Tommy's ''please come home, Dean's being dramatic and he won't let me calm him down with a blowjob'' texts. She's willing to admit she has not handled this particular fight in the best way. She's going to have to rectify that. She sends him a quick text, telling him that she's visiting her grandfather, assuring him that she's okay, baby's okay, and she's going to pick up whatever he wants for dinner._

 _''I should head home,'' she says. She smiles at her grandfather, even though it's pointless, even though it's not really him. ''Thank you for listening. You were always good at that.'' She struggles to her feet, moving one hand to rub at her sore lower back. She looks over at the gravestone next to the bench she was sitting on. ''Thanks again for the seat, Brian,'' she comments lightly. ''I'll be sure to bring you some flowers the next time I'm here.'' She looks back at Grandpa's grave, pressing a kiss to her fingers and laying them gently on the cold stone. ''I'll see you on Sunday,'' she promises softly. ''Unless I have a baby before then. But I've given up hope on that, so I'll probably see you on Sunday.'' She pats the stone the same way she used to pat him on the shoulder, and then she starts the hike back to her car._

 _She brings a hand up to rub her belly when she feels little Beatrice Mary or Mary Beatrice squirming around in there. She's kicking and wriggling around, undoubtedly trying to get comfortable. Even she seems frustrated by this situation. Which isn't a surprise. She's not a huge baby, but she's still got to be running out of room at this point. ''Hey,'' Laurel frowns. ''Don't blame me for this, kid. You'd have all the room you need out here, but you won't come out. You're the one who needs to get your ass in gear, not me.''_

 _She earns herself a swift kick in the ribs for that one._

 _Laurel snorts, unimpressed. ''Yeah, okay, but am I wrong?'' She stops once she reaches the path. She glances in the direction of her car, and then turns back around to look into the cemetery. She chews on her lip, and considers another familiar grave. ''What do you think?'' She asks, propping her hands on her hips and looking down at her bump. ''Should we go visit your aunt?''_

 _No response. Not even a kick._

 _In the tree to her left, the crows cackle mockingly, disrupting the silence of the dead. The sound startles a small flock of sparrows picking at the ground and they flutter to life, squeaking in fear and dispersing quickly. Laurel looks up at the cloudy sky, watching them scatter away. ''A visit couldn't hurt,'' she murmurs. ''Maybe the walk will do us some good, baby girl.''_

 _She sets off, slowly moving in the opposite direction of her car. She didn't used to come here a lot. Once a year, on Christmas, with her weeping father to light a candle for Sara's birthday. That's about it. She never saw the point in it. It's an empty casket. It is not her final resting place. Every particle, every atom, every bit of energy that used to be Sara is drowning. Lost at sea forever. This dry boneyard isn't the place Laurel thinks of when she wants to be with her sister. When she thinks about Sara, she thinks of the bottom of the ocean._

 _She changed the route of her early morning run from the park near her apartment to down by the water. She deliberately parks her car in a parkade across the bay from the Glades so she has to walk the path along the water to get to work. She always seems to end up by the water. The ocean is what took Sara away, and the ocean is what kept her. This place, all dirt and grass, bones and bugs, is not where she is._

 _But over the past few months, ever since Grandpa died, Laurel has found herself at Sara's grave more often than not. Most of the time, it's just because Grandma usually wants to stop by before they go to lunch, but lately... It's so easy to throw rocks at the sea that swallowed your sister. It's easy to scream at the ocean and have your wails drowned out by the crashing waves. It's better to talk to a gravestone. She's been doing a lot more talking than screaming over the past several months. She can't help it. With the baby coming, it's like this a floodgate has been opened up and a brand new wave of grief has washed over everything._

 _The gaping wound left behind by Sara's loss has never not felt raw and painful, but it's been especially excruciating over the past nine months. There's so much that she wants to tell her sister, so much she wants to share with her. When she was a kid, she used to imagine her future, and Sara was always right beside her. They were meant to live their lives side by side, to share all their joys, all their sorrows, triumphs and failures, all of it. Sara was supposed to be here for all the big moments._

 _Sara could be the most annoying, entitled, spoiled brat. She caused so much trouble, left so much wreckage in her wake, created so many messes that Laurel, the dutiful big sister, had to clean up. Sara stole boyfriends and girlfriends, broke hearts, skipped class to go to the mall or smoke weed behind the big Oak tree on the school grounds. She got in fights she couldn't win, started drama just to start drama, and she had little regard for other people's feelings, especially when that person was Laurel. She could be such an ass sometimes, but she was still her other half._

 _Laurel has been off balance for years now. She would like to know, so desperately, when things will start to even out again. Will it be next year? The year after that? When Sara is ten years gone, an echo of a girl who never got to grow up, will it be better? Will it hurt less? Laurel thinks of Dean, who got his brother back, who always gets his brother back. She thinks of the person he was when they met, splintered apart by loss, and the person he is now, and she thinks - No. No, it will never hurt less._

 _When she is finally holding her daughter in her arms, will she be able to give her all of her when part of her is still knee deep in the surf, howling for Sara? How many years will it take for her to stop howling?_

 _''She would've been a great aunt, you know,'' she says. She licks her dry lips, trudging through fallen leaves and damp, muddy grass. ''Sara was the wild and free type,'' she carries on. ''She didn't like to be pinned down. That's what she used to say. She was pre med, and everyone was so proud of her for that, but I don't think she would have ended up a doctor. Not because she couldn't. I know she could have. But that's not what she wanted. She used to talk about traveling the world because she hated the idea of staying in one place for too long. She was her own home.'' She smiles dimly, sadly. ''She knew herself. She was comfortable with what she wanted out of life. I've never had that kind of self-confidence. I've tried, but it's easier said than done.''_

 _When she feels an all too familiar swell of discomfort, she has to stop, swallowing down a startled gasp. ''Oh, come on,'' she mumbles. ''Here? We're going to do this here?'' The grip of the incoming contraction is a crampy feeling low in her belly and a tight band of pressure that wraps around to her lower back. It's not the worst, but it catches her off guard. ''Okay, okay,'' she groans, bending over slightly, one hand braced against a nearby statue. ''Shit.'' It's not that big of a deal. Last night was way worse. It just doesn't have the greatest effect on her mental state. She's already emotional and exhausted and she's out here all alone with the dead. Adding pain into the mix is like the perfect cocktail of panic. She breathes through the mild contraction, far more focused on keeping a potential panic attack at bay rather than the actual physical discomfort. ''Okay,'' she huffs out again, once it's passed. ''That sucked.'' She takes a second to calm down, moving one hand up to rub at her sternum to ease the ache of anxiety. ''Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,'' she says, pointedly. ''I hope you have the kind of self-confidence Sara had.''_

 _Slowly, she resumes her trek across dead leaves and twigs. ''I'm not saying you need to be exactly like her,'' she says with a dim laugh. ''Clearly she wasn't perfect. But she did love life. She could be hard but she was never bitter. She always tried hard to see the beauty in the world and the fun in life. Even when I couldn't. When I was afraid, she was brave for the both of us.'' She lowers her voice down to a whisper and pats her belly gently. ''I hope you'll be brave.''_

 _There isn't much else to say. Sara would have been a good aunt. Her niece would have loved her. But, the truth is that if Sara could be here right now, if she hadn't gotten on that boat, there would be no baby. There would be no Mary Beatrice/Beatrice Mary, no Dean, no marriage, none of it. None of what Laurel has now would be hers. She doesn't know where she would be, but she knows she wouldn't be here._

 _She wants to be here._

 _Maybe that's the part that hurts the most. She loves her husband. She loves her baby girl. She loves her sister. But she doesn't think she ever would have been able to have all three of them at the same time. The life she's living now wouldn't have happened if she hadn't lost Sara. She would be someone else entirely. She tries not to think too much about it. She can't right now. She wants a quick minute to herself at Sara's grave and then she wants to go home to Dean. There's a baby coming soon. That's where her focus needs to be._

 _Her sister's gravesite is in a different area of the cemetery, a little further away from the other graves. Her parents picked this area because it was off the beaten path and away from prying eyes. Sara's death was so public, drawn out on the local news because the Queen name was involved, that for the first year or so it felt like there were prying eyes everywhere._

 _She approaches the grave with a lump in her throat. It is always silent at this grave. Not even the birds come here. She slips her phone back into her pocket and busies herself with brushing away some fallen leaves from the stone. With a fair amount of difficulty, she even manages to crouch down and pick up the bouquet of wilted flowers from the ground. They're dahlias. Pinks ones to be exact. Sara never liked dahlias. Or pink._

 _Laurel looks down at the flowers in her hand. It looks like it was a lovely bouquet once upon a time. Not anything big, just a small bundle, but it's nice and it looks like they were gorgeous dahlias. They'd have to be. They're from the Orchid Park Company. It's the best place in town to get flowers. Expensive, but worth it. Laurel goes there once a month for fresh flowers. They always have her favourites. Daisies and calla lilies._

 _The dahlias look sad and shriveled now. She wonders who bought them. Her father, maybe. He doesn't usually come here unless it's a special occasion but everything's been stirred up recently. Oliver's return reopened the wound that took years to cauterize. She wouldn't be surprised to find out her dad has been spending more time here lately. Although the prices at the OPC are rather steep for him. Most of his spare change goes towards scotch. Maybe it was Tommy. He comes to the cemetery a lot at this time of the year to bring his mother flowers. It's plausible he would stop to visit Sara. He cared about her too._

 _She picks at the flowers, plucking the petals off one by one and letting them flutter to the damp ground. She looks at the headstone. She is never sure what she's supposed to say to this empty monument bearing her sister's name. ''Sorry I didn't bring you flowers,'' she shrugs. ''I didn't know I would be here.'' She presses her lips together tightly. Sara didn't like flowers anyway. Flowers are Laurel's thing. ''I had a dream about you,'' she decides on. ''You were coming home.''_

 _It's a half truth. She does have the occasional dream about Sara's miraculous return, but most of her dreams about Sara are nightmares. Vivid nightmares about her sister's waterlogged corpse laughing at her and choking on water have become part of her new normal. Pregnancy dreams aren't talked about the way weight gain, morning sickness, and weird cravings are, but it's been her least favourite symptom. She'd even take the debilitating hip pain over waking up crying and soaked in sweat._

 _Laurel clutches the bouquet of dead flowers and stands there in the silence, trying to find Sara. There's no real piece of her here. Not even a whisper. There are no pieces of her anywhere anymore. Just memories, a sensation of grief that is still so intense it leaves her dizzy, and the taste of salt._

 _The quiet sound of leaves crunching under someone's footfalls has her looking up, expecting to catch the eye of some stranger passing by on their way to their own grief. Instead, she looks up, and there's Oliver. He stops when he sees her. Just goes still right there in the leaves. His eyes widen, startled. He looks trapped._

 _Instinctively, her hand moves to rest atop her baby bump protectively. ''What are you doing here?''_

 _He didn't bring flowers either. She wonders if that's because he knows Sara wouldn't have appreciated them or because he just didn't think of it. ''I wanted to pay my respects,'' he says._

 _''You're going to do that from all the way over there?''_

 _''I don't have to - '' He stops. ''I can leave if you want me to.''_

 _She laughs, and somehow manages to keep the bitterness out of it. ''I'm way too pregnant for this game, Oliver. Whatever she was to you, you obviously cared about her in some way. You have the right to mourn her. I'm not going to stop you.''_

 _''Right,'' he says, with an awkward grimace. ''I just don't want to make you uncomfortable.''_

 _She sends him a sidelong glace. He's lying to her. He's always been lying to her. It's all a big lie to him. ''You can stay or you can leave,'' she says, as calmly as she can, ''but you don't get to use me as an excuse to chicken out.''_

 _He blinks, looking stunned by her bluntness. Then he sighs, shoulders relaxing, and he makes his way over to her. He doesn't say anything as he takes a spot next to her, and neither does she._

 _She holds her breath, squashes down the minor discomfort at having him too close to her, and she watches him as he takes in the sight of Sara's grave. ''This is your first time here,'' she speaks softly, ''isn't it?''_

 _He looks at her briefly, wincing, and then looks away. ''I haven't been able to come here,'' he admits. ''I've tried.'' He digs his hands into his pockets. He looks at the headstone. He seems to swirl through a myriad of emotions before he settles on a quiet, ''It's nice.''_

 _''Your mother paid for it,'' she states. ''I think she felt guilty on your behalf.''_

 _He audibly sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. This would normally be the part where she apologizes, but it wouldn't mean a thing right now. She's too tired to coddle him right now. She studies his profile. She watches as he opens his eyes and stares intently at Sara's name etched onto the stone. This is not the man who got on that boat. She is still not sure what to do with this new man. How to talk to him. How to respond to the odd things he does. She does understand post traumatic stress disorder. She knows how it can warp and twist. She has had a front row seat to the way it can ruin._

 _She is married to Dean Winchester, after all._

 _Their relationship began in the wake of the apocalypse, the aftermath of Sam's sacrifice, and the shadow of Hell. Dean is, despite what people may think, one of the softest, gentlest men she has ever known. And PTSD still managed to twist him up so badly that he couldn't see straight. There are at least two hastily patched up holes in the drywall, a tremor in his left hand that acts up when he's stressed, the sound of shattering glass makes him flinch, and he still has nightmares. He once told her that it's almost like being possessed. You are no longer you. You don't know up from down, right from left, real from nightmare._

 _Once, right before he dragged himself to get help, she made the mistake of waking Dean from a particularly bad nightmare by shaking him awake. She ended up with a handprint around her neck because he had forgotten he was no longer in Hell. He left for four days that time. Didn't come home until Danny De La Vega found him in some shithole bar in the Glades and hauled his sorry ass back home to her. Even then, he slept on the couch and refused to touch her for a month because he was terrified of himself._

 _So, yes, she understands that PTSD can turn you inside out and reshape you into someone else. She understands that Oliver is in pain and that his pain is unpredictable. She understands that he needs help and that he probably deserves a bit more grace and compassion than she is currently willing to give him. But it hurts to look at him. It hurts to be around him. It just hurts. She can't look at him and not see what happened. It's not just Sara either. It's all of it. It's everything. Their entire relationship. She doesn't want to make him feel like he's some awful monster but she is not comfortable around him anymore. Being around him reminds her of the way things were. How horribly he treated her. How bad she felt about herself when she was in that relationship._

 _Oliver did not ruin her. She refuses to give him that kind of power. But he did chip away at her. Their relationship crushed her self-esteem and her self-worth. He loved her, but he was also a selfish and cowardly idiot. She doesn't think he's a bad person now. She doesn't even think he was a bad person then. It's just hard to look back on what they had and not call it abusive. It's hard to be around him now, even with this quest for redemption he's seemingly on, without falling back into the role of victim. And she will not be his victim ever again._

 _Laurel shifts, just a little, moving her body away from him just barely. He notices her movement incredibly fast, snapping his head around to look at her. She startles, flinching ever so slightly, and he instantly backs off. His voice is quiet when he speaks, like he's expecting her to disintegrate if he speaks any louder. ''Are you okay?''_

 _''I'm fine,'' she nods. ''Just, um...'' She smiles tightly. ''Pregnancy is uncomfortable,'' she says, which is not technically a lie. ''I'm tired of being an incubator.''_

 _Sure does seem to spook him. The entire idea of her being pregnant seems to make him extremely uncomfortable, to be honest. Pregnancy in general doesn't turn him into a bumbling fool. Just her being pregnant. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why._

 _''Oh,'' he bobs his head up and down. ''Right.'' He looks down at her bump briefly and then back up at her, with a carefully soft look in his eyes. ''When are you due?''_

 _She heaves a sigh. ''The 22nd.''_

 _He stares, gaping at her in something akin to horror. ''Of October?''_

 _''Yes, Ollie.''_

 _''It's the 30th.''_

 _''I am very aware of that.''_

 _''That's...'' He suddenly looks extremely concerned. It's like he's afraid he's going to wind up having to deliver her baby right there in front of Sara's grave in the next five minutes. ''Do you need to sit down? I feel like you should be sitting down.''_

 _She can't help but chuckle at the slight panic in his voice. ''I'm okay,'' she assures him. ''But thank you.''_

 _He looks both reluctant and grateful to leave it at that, but he doesn't push the issue. When he eventually does speak again, his voice is quiet and incredibly cautious, like he's afraid she's going to bolt if he says the wrong thing. ''I'm sorry,'' he tells her._

 _He's been telling her that a lot lately. She accepts his apologies because she can tell that, for possibly the first time in his life, he is telling her the truth. Oliver's countless apologies are earnest and full of guilt and regret but at the end of the day, what do they really mean? Laurel offers her forgiveness because he needs it and maybe she does too, but Sara is still gone. Apologies can't change what happened. ''You keep saying that.''_

 _''I'm not sure what else I can say,'' he admits. ''This isn't just about Sara this time. When you took my case - ''_

 _''Oliver,'' she sighs, rubbing at her forehead. ''We don't have to talk about - ''_

 _''No, I know, but I need you to - I have to tell you...'' He shakes his head. ''I didn't intend for that to happen. I didn't want you to represent me because I wanted to take advantage of you. I wanted you to represent me because you're a good lawyer and I needed a good lawyer. What I did after - That shouldn't have happened.'' To his credit, he does look genuinely remorseful. ''I kissed you,'' he says, ''and you clearly didn't want me to. You were right to react the way you did.''_

 _She arches an eyebrow flatly. She doesn't need his validation to know that her reaction to an unwanted advance was founded but okay. ''Yes,'' she says stiffly. ''I know. Thank you for your apology.''_

 _He seems to understand that they haven't quite reached the forgiveness stage with this. ''Does,'' he winces. ''Does Dean know?''_

 _''I don't keep secrets from my husband.''_

 _''Fair enough,'' he nods. ''Does he want to kill me?''_

 _''It was on the table,'' she confirms. ''But you lucked out. We're about to have a baby. He knows he needs to stay out of jail.''_

 _Oliver doesn't look like he believes her. He looks like he's waiting for Dean to jump out from behind a tombstone and knock his teeth out._

 _''I should probably go,'' she decides, after a minute of painful silence. ''You need some time alone,'' she insists, when it looks like he's going to protest, ''and I really should get home.'' She sends him a tiny half smile and rests her hand on his arm lightly before turning away. She only makes it a few steps before she hears his voice again._

 _''If you had been single when I came back,'' he starts, and she stops in her tracks. ''What do you think would have happened?''_

 _Laurel gapes at nothing, too stunned by the question to turn around. What a bold move. Her lips thin in annoyance and she whirls around to look at him, eyes darkening. ''Are you seriously asking me that question?''_

 _He has the nerve to look surprised by her visible irritation. ''I - ''_

 _''How many other girls were there?'' Her voice is calm and cold, even though her rage feels white hot._

 _He pales the second the words leave her lips. ''Laurel - ''_

 _''How many other girls,'' she snarls out, ''did you fuck while you were dating me?'' She doesn't stop there. ''How many times did you drop me off at home after a date, kiss me goodnight, and then go off and stick your dick in one of our friends? You know,'' she narrows her eyes, taking a step towards him. ''One of the first things I did after you and Sara...'' She stops, with a sharp intake of breath. ''After you and Sara,'' she continues, ''the first thing I did when I was able to drag myself out of bed was go and get tested. Now, tell me, Oliver. Was that an overreaction?''_

 _His long silence is more than answer enough. And yet she still stays there, waiting for him to say something that proves her wrong. She doesn't know why she's still putting herself through this crap. She's waiting for something that will never happen._

 _''No,'' he finally croaks out, guilty as always. ''It wasn't.''_

 _''Yeah,'' she smirks bitterly, voice tight. ''That's what I thought. You don't get to ask me questions like that.'' She's not sure what he thinks he can get from her now. Years ago, she loved him. She loved him so much it made her lightheaded and it made her blind. That was a long time ago. There is a dull grief when she looks at him now; the remnants of the five years she thought he was dead. There is a faint anger, and somewhere, deep down, there is fondness and the possibility of one day being his friend. There is nothing else. She has nothing to offer him. Certainly nothing he wants. ''I loved you, Ollie,'' she says, putting emphasis on the past tense. ''I did. I don't anymore.''_

 _He looks unreasonably crestfallen. ''Simple as that?''_

 _''Trust me,'' she bites out, ''there was nothing simple about it. I had to remember who I was without you. I had to relearn how to be a person. Moving on from you and what you did was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. But I did it. I'm happy now. I'm free. I'm sorry you're not. And no, Ollie, even if I wasn't married...'' She licks her lips. ''I would never be able to trust you. I trust Dean. I love him. I want to be with him.'' She steps back over to him and somehow manages to dig her gentleness out from underneath the bitterness. ''When I imagine my future, it's him standing next to me. It's not you,'' she confesses, quiet. ''I thought it was for a long time, but it's not.''_

 _The puppy dog eyed look he's sending her is familiar. She used to see that look all the time. It was what made her go back to him time and time again. It doesn't feel as powerful as it used to. ''I...'' His shoulders deflate and he releases a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. ''I know. I do, Laurel. I know you're happy. I don't want to ruin that. I'm just - I've been...'' He twists around to look at Sara's grave again, and then looks back at her. ''I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing here.''_

 _She gets the feeling he's not just talking about here at this graveyard. ''I can't help you there,'' she says slowly. ''It's not my place.'' Tentatively, she reaches out to take one of his hands in hers and gives it a light squeeze. ''What I do know is that you have a family who loves you. So maybe you should start there.'' She offers him the best smile she can dredge up. ''I know this may surprise you but I am glad you're alive. I want you to find peace and happiness, Oliver, but you know you won't find that with me.''_

 _''I know,'' he says, tossing her a small rueful smile. ''We missed our shot.''_

 _She takes pity on him and doesn't point out that they never really had a shot in the first place. ''Thea missed you every day, you know,'' she says. ''I think she still does. You should spend some time with her. Go to the movies. Go out for lunch. A walk in the park. Take a weekend trip to Coast City. Just be with your sister. Be happy. You were given a second chance. Don't you dare waste that.'' She smiles at him one last time and then lets go of his hand, tugging out of his grasp. ''I'm sure I'll see you around,'' she says, and steps back, away from him._

 _When she turns to leave this time, he doesn't call out after her or follow her. He lets her go._

 _She doesn't look back._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

It's raining again.

That's to be expected at this time of the year - November is, statistically speaking, one of the wettest months of the year in Star City - but it's so easy to grow tired of the consistently dreary weather. Laurel has never loved the rain but she used to be too busy to dwell on it. She had a hectic life. A fast paced law career, a thriving home life, and the Black Canary was always running, always fighting, far too focused to notice the weather. She doesn't have any of that anymore. She lost it all back in April. She's been noticing the rain a lot more lately.

It's been a week since she came back and she has spent nearly the entire week in bed, listening to the rain, trapped inside all day long. She knows that rest is an important part of recovery. She needed time to work on healing. Her body needed sleep. It's just so foreign to her; the stillness. She's never been still a day in her life. She doesn't mind the stillness so much. It's peaceful. But she's been having trouble with the - with the walls. With walls in general, actually. She's still learning how to cope with her brand new claustrophobia. She's doing her best to spend as much time outside as she can, but with the weather...

She's never realized how small her beloved house is. She used to view the clutter and the small size of it as charming and cozy. She also used to get to leave every day.

It's not like it's been a horrible week. For awhile, it was her and Mary during the days, which was nice if not a little...strange in some ways. The truth of the matter is that children can be fickle. All the things Mary was into back in April, all her favourite movies and books and toys, she's over now. She's moved on. Laurel doesn't know her way around Mary's likes and dislikes the way she used to. And it's not just Mary who's changed either. Laurel keeps slipping up with her daughter. She adds a slice of ham and mayo to a grilled cheese even though Mary hates it, she slices up a pear instead of an apple, puts on Toy Story instead of Finding Nemo, sings the first few lines of You Are My Sunshine instead of Sea of Love. It's not something she wants to talk about, especially not with Dean, but when it comes down to it, Laurel only had three years with Mary. She had lifetimes with Henry. She loves her daughter more than anything, nothing could ever change that, but she doesn't know her as well as she knew her son.

Adjusting to being here has been hard, is the point. Way harder than she thought it would be.

She's not used to being idle. Or unemployed. She's been trying to fill her days up with her daughter - with speech therapy, helping her with sign language and her balance issues, and she's apparently really into learning to read right now - and trying to salvage her poor garden but now that Mary has gone back to preschool, the house has been so quiet. There is always something that needs to be done, that's not necessarily the problem. She's just not used to this.

Laurel has always respected Dean's choice to stay home with Mary. It's what works for their family and it's been great for both him and their daughter. However, she thinks she can safely say that she has never had more respect for him than she does now that she's gotten a taste of what his life has been like. She supposes she was technically a stay at home mom up there with Henry but that was a false reality. There was no real workload in Heaven. There has never been a moment where she hasn't been grateful to him but she's clearly never realized how difficult it is to be the stay at home parent. She's ashamed to admit that she's never thought about it much. He makes it look so easy. He used to make it seem like he and Mary just hung out together all day long. Sometimes they went to the park, sometimes they didn't, he helped her with sign language every weekday afternoon, and then he made dinner. Turns out, there is a lot more to it than that, and it is hard work.

It's not just that being cooped up inside the same four walls is triggering her brand new claustrophobia either. It's all of it. Without Mary, the house is quiet and lonely and she can still barely manage to keep up with all the household chores. With Mary, the house is full of life and there is always something to do but she has no idea how she's supposed to keep up with all the daily chores plus all the messes that Mary leaves in her wake. There are never ending piles of dirty dishes and dirty laundry in this household. It's maddening, honestly. She doesn't understand how they can have this much laundry. No wonder Dean has been so vehemently opposed to getting a pet. It would just be an additional mess.

And the thing is, she has literally only been doing this for a week. And, quite frankly, given that she's supposed to be taking it easy and getting as much rest as she can, it's been a pretty damn lazy version of a stay at home parent's life.

Also, she thought that the whole resting aspect of this week would actually like...help? She's been resting and staying off her feet as much as possible for a week and maybe she's just being impatient but she still doesn't feel quite right physically. She still feels off balance and she is always so tired. She's not sure if that's because she needs more time in general. Or if it's because of the nightly panic attacks. She hasn't been able to get past those.

Her nightmares are just like her: stubbornly clingy. Things are easier in the daylight but at night, when everything is quiet and dark, she can't seem to shake the remembering. Waking up six feet under in your own casket will do that to you. Sometimes it feels like she left a piece of herself in that disturbed earth when she clawed her way out. Every night, she wakes up sobbing and disoriented, drenched in sweat and unable to breathe, trapped in her own body.

Dean tells her, as calm and patient with her as ever, that it will pass. That eventually, she will stop feeling so chewed up and spit out. That one day, she'll wake up, and she won't feel like the earth wants her back. ''You do come back,'' he says. ''You come back piece by piece. It takes time.''

It's a comfort, it is, but when she asked him how long it took him to leave that grave behind for good, he couldn't answer her question. She's not sure she would have believed him anyway. She would like to. She would love to believe that all the pieces come home eventually, but she's not so sure.

Laurel twists the car keys in her hands, looking out the window at the gravestones surrounding her. She doesn't get out of the car. She procrastinates for as long as she can and then she climbs out of the Impala and shuts the door. She takes a few steps away from it before she dares to open her umbrella. Just in case. She's not risking scratching the paint.

It's not like she's afraid of getting in trouble. Dean wouldn't have left the keys with her if he didn't trust her. Besides, she's driven this thing before. They're married. They share. It's a thing that happens sometimes in marriages. This car doesn't have seatbelts anyway so he's had to make certain sacrifices over the years. Like driving Mary around in their very safe and reliable Chevy Equinox that actually has seatbelts in the back. She's heard a lot about that particular sacrifice over the years. Incessantly so. It's a little irritating, actually. It's also definitely given her a complex about this car. She's obsessively careful when she drives it.

She tugs her green canvas jacket tighter around her body, shivering lightly in the cold air. She moves slowly, like her boots are sticking to the wet gravel. She slips the car keys into her pocket and white knuckles the umbrella with both hands. It's a graveyard, not a trap. She's been here plenty of times. She lived here for seven months.

Well.

Maybe _lived_ isn't the right word.

The point is, she knows this place. She knows it like she knows the back of her hand. This is where pieces of her heart are. This is where she'll go back to. She shouldn't be so afraid of it. She stops walking right before she hits the grass. Her body flat out refuses to go further than the edge of the gravel path. She allows herself exactly two minutes to stand there, eyes closed, breathing through the fear, and then she forces herself to step onto the grass. It's muddy and wet, but the earth doesn't drag her back under. She releases a breath. She walks quickly, purposefully, winding her way through the maze until she reaches her destination.

Oliver is standing in front of what used to be her final resting place, right where she thought he would be.

She stops when she sees him, hanging back to watch him. He doesn't have an umbrella, but he doesn't seem bothered by the drizzly weather. He should be. He's wearing a suit, probably an extremely expensive designer suit. Thea would be incredibly displeased. Laurel tilts her head to the side and watches as he crouches down in front of the broken headstone, reaching out to turn a piece of it over.

There has been a lot of people in and out of her home over the past week. Everyone has been bringing her food and coffee, stopping by on their lunch breaks, after work, before work, making any excuse to come by and see her. Oliver has not been one of them. She's heard from Thea that he's been busy fixing up the bunker, getting started on the construction here, and just in general being both Green Arrow and the Mayor of Star City. They're going with the vandalism excuse for all the damage. It was on all the news. There was a press conference. It was very official. He condemned the vandalism, apologized to the families of the deceased on behalf of the city, and assured everyone that everything would be fixed, restored, and cleaned up. Nobody questioned it.

The people in this city have learned to stop asking questions about strange things that happen late at night.

Laurel isn't particularly upset that he hasn't been to see her. He has a life full of better things to do, and he doesn't owe her anything. Especially not after she blew out his eardrum and destroyed his headquarters. There's also a part of her that wonders if he's avoiding her because he knows that she's been informed of everything he did after she died. Like that embarrassing statue. Or, you know, publicly outing her criminal behavior at her funeral in front of everyone, which not only destroyed her reputation as a lawyer but nearly resulted in Dean getting thrown in jail and Mary getting taken by CPS. She can't blame him for not dropping by. At least he's smart enough to know that ringing her doorbell at seven thirty in the morning with peppermint hot chocolate, a gift basket full of mini muffins, and forced cheerfulness won't fix everything. Certain other people have not gotten that message. Although the hot chocolate was delicious and Mary did love the muffins that Felicity brought.

She understands why Oliver might want to keep his distance for now. But she is not really here to find the unsalvageable missing pieces of herself, see. She's here because she knew he would be.

She chews on her lower lip anxiously and then starts towards him. She approaches him slowly, making sure to wipe all traces of nervousness off her face. ''You know,'' she starts, and he stands straight, whirling around to face her. ''You don't need to come here to talk to me anymore.''

Oliver's eyes follow her every movement as she comes to stand next to him. His eyes soften when he sees her. He still looks awed by her. It's a strange feeling. Flattering but confusing. He was never outright awed by her before ''No,'' he says, lips curling back into a slow, disbelieving smile. ''I guess I don't.''

She tilts her head up to send him a bright smile. ''How's your ear?''

''My ear is fine,'' he assures her. ''Turns out the eardrum wasn't completely burst. It's healing up nicely.''

''Glad to hear it,'' she nods. ''And you've seen a real doctor about it?''

''Got antibiotics and everything.''

''Good. I really am sorry about that. And about the bunker.''

''Don't be,'' he waves it off dismissively. ''Felicity wanted a remodel anyway. She said the place was too dark.''

''Well, she wasn't wrong.''

''People tell me that a lot,'' he says, smile widening when she laughs. ''What about you?'' He looks her up and down, from the umbrella to her messy ponytail to her muddy boots. He pauses for just a fraction of a second on her wedding rings, now back in place on her left hand. His soft expression never wavers but he does take a step back. ''How are you doing?''

''Better,'' she lies. ''I've been catching up on my sleep. And Netflix. I watched Stranger Things.''

''Yeah?'' He nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ''I still haven't finished that one.''

''Wow,'' she whistles lowly. ''I was dead for seven months and even I've finished it.'' She shakes her head at him. ''You need to get your shit together, Ollie.''

''I've been busy.''

''Yeah?'' She smirks at him. ''Is _busy_ code for _watching Die Hard for the millionth time_?''

He doesn't protest that. ''It's November, Laurel, which means it's basically Christmas and Die Hard is the best Christmas movie ever made.''

''Now you sound like Dean.''

Oliver wrinkles his nose. He looks deeply, _deeply_ offended by that. ''No offense but I'm not sure how I feel about having things in common with that guy.''

She laughs at him. ''Yeah, he said the same thing.''

Actually, what really happened is that way back in the beginning of their relationship, during their first Christmas together, Dean was going off on some fanboy tangent about Die Hard and defending the right to call it a Christmas movie. She made some off hand comment about him sounding like her ex and he said, without missing a beat, ''What's a Die Hard? I don't know that one. The best Christmas movie is The Year Without a Santa Claus.'' And that's the story of why Dean walks around the house each year singing the Heat Miser song during the month of December.

Laurel pulls the umbrella back to look up at the sky. The rain has slowed down considerably now. It's still spitting out but the drops are few and far between. She closes the umbrella and removes some of the space between her and Oliver. ''What are you doing here?'' She asks quietly.

He pauses before he answers. ''I came down here to check on the progress of the clean up.'' It's a lie. He looks at her, squinting at her suspiciously. ''What about you? I didn't think you would want to come back here.''

That's certainly an understatement. She flings a look in the direction of her torn up grave, barely managing to suppress a shudder. She knew when she decided to come here that it would look bad. John's been keeping her updated on everything to do with the clean up. He's the one who called and told her that they were going to have to dig up the remains of her casket, which wasn't an easy thing for any of them to do because nobody wanted to see what it looked like. She's aware that a story has been spun here because she's the one who did the spinning.

A few nights ago, Oliver, John, and Sam came here and dug up the casket. She made sure Dean and Sara were not informed of this until after because she did not want them to see it. She didn't want any of them to have to see that but Dean and Sara especially. She didn't want them to have to look at the splintered wood, the blood stains, all the sharp pieces from where she tore herself out.

She ran that mission. She ran that mission from bed using Thea's phone while Thea kept Dean and Sara distracted. She kept in touch with Sam throughout the whole thing and didn't breathe a sigh of relief until he told her it was over. The next morning, Mayor Queen briskly informed the caretaker of the cemetery that because of the vandalism, Laurel Lance's family had decided to move her body to the Lance family crypt in Gotham where she would be safe.

She remembers the strange feeling of suspense that night. She remembers the guilt over keeping Dean and Sara in the dark. She vividly remembers the cold feeling of horror and nausea that swept over her when Sam asked her if she wanted her shoes from the cemetery. She knew when she came here that this grave would look bad. But the gaping, cavernous hole in front of her is... You can't really prepare yourself for something like this.

It reminds her far too much of a mouth, if she's being honest. A week is not nearly long enough to convince her that this place won't swallow her whole if she gets too close. Laurel has no idea how she managed to escape that grave, but she knows for sure that she would not be able to do it again. She doesn't want to do it again.

''I just needed some air,'' she says, finally. ''I've been going stir crazy.'' She tosses him a quick, tight smile. ''But, uh, I actually wanted to talk to you. Felicity told me you were here.''

''You - Oh.'' He looks genuinely surprised. ''Of course. What do you need?''

A complicated question, really.

She looks down at the ground and tries to figure out how the hell she's going to word this. She's not exactly here to ask him to get her out of a parking ticket. She looks back up at him and instantly, his eyes widen in concern. For a second, she thinks maybe she's blurted it out without realizing it, but then he speaks. ''Whoa, hey, Laurel,'' he's already reaching out towards her, ''your nose is bleeding.''

Automatically, she reaches up to wipe at her nose and sure enough, her hand comes away slick with blood. Reflexively, she sniffles and then grimaces as her mouth is filled with the metallic taste of blood. ''Shit.'' She tilts her head back, pinching her nose. ''Can you - Can you grab a tissue from my pocket?''

''Which - ''

''My jacket pocket. Either one. I'm a mom.''

''Uh, what does that have to - ''

''You have to keep tissues on you at all time when you have a kid,'' she informs him, voice nasally from plugging her nose. ''Otherwise you wind up wiping up snot with your shirt the way Dean does.''

''Oh.'' Oliver helpfully reaches into her pocket to retrieve a tissue for her. ''That sounds like a glamorous life.''

She laughs and almost immediately chokes on the blood running down the back of her throat. It's a profoundly disturbing sensation. ''Don't make me laugh.''

''I can't just turn it off, Laurel.''

''That's funny.'' She holds the tissue to her nose, trying to mop up the mess and stem the flow of blood but it just keeps coming. ''When did you turn it on?'' She can't remember the last time she had a nosebleed. Sara used to get nosebleeds in the winter when she was a kid and chase Laurel around the house with her face full of blood like a creepy horror movie kid, but Laurel has never been prone to them.

''Are you okay?'' She hears Ollie's voice ask. She can hear the frown in his voice. ''That's a lot of - ''

''I'm fine,'' she mumbles. ''It's just the cold weather.''

He steps into her space, one hand gently removing the umbrella from her grasp, the other slipping into her other jacket pocket to dig around for another tissue. ''You don't usually get nose bleeds in cold weather.''

She doesn't usually sleep for twelve hours and get random dizzy spells either but here we are. ''It's fine.'' She accepts the fresh tissue from him. ''Nosebleeds happen,'' she says. ''They're a part of life.'' She turns away from him to blow her nose. It really is fine. It's mildly jarring to see all the sticky blood leaking through the tissue and coating her fingers, and the taste of it reminds her far too much of that night at Iron Heights. But she's not in any pain. She's not feeling lightheaded. It's just a nosebleed. Everyone gets nosebleeds. Even Mary's had a few of them. Laurel sops up the blood the best she can, clenching the soiled tissues in her fist.

''Hey,'' Oliver's voice says. ''Let's get you out of the rain, okay?'' He slides an arm around her shoulders and she reluctantly allows him to steer her away from her open grave.

What she should be thinking, as she instinctively leads him over to the Impala, is that Dean is going to be so pissed when he finds out that Oliver - of all people - has invaded his sacred space. What she's really thinking, as Oliver's climbing into the passenger seat, is that she needs another tissue. He must be thinking the same thing because he's already rifling around in the glove compartment and asking her if there's any more tissues anywhere. She's never been clear on what kind of wacky ass psychic connection her husband has with this car but she's really hoping his first baby doesn't tell him that Oliver Queen has been...inside of her.

Oliver glances over at her out of the corner of his eye as he's searching for another tissue. ''Are you sure you're - ''

''I'm fine,'' she bites out.

He produces a packet of Kleenex from the glove compartment. He doesn't say anything as he hands it over to her, but she can feel his eyes on her as she tries to stop the flow of blood. ''Is there something I should know?'' He asks eventually. ''About the - the witches?'' He still seems to be disproportionately incredulous about this whole witch thing. She can't say she understands his disbelief. Not after Darhk. ''Are there any leads?''

''None that anyone's shared with me,'' she says. ''Have you heard anything?''

''About _witches?_ No.''

When her nose finally decides to stop running like a faucet, she cleans herself up the best she can with the packet of Kleenex and glares down at the droplets of blood staining her shirt. It's not like this is her most presentable shirt. It's an old t-shirt of her father's that she stole when she was a kid and never gave back. It's threadbare, stretched out from when she wore it while pregnant, and there are already a bunch of other stains on it, but the blood has dropped right onto David Bowie's face and blood is so hard to get out. Her fingers still feel tacky with it. She can't get the coppery taste out of her mouth. ''That's not what I wanted to talk to you about anyway.'' She looks over at Oliver. ''I need to ask you for a favor.''

''Whatever you need.''

She smiles grimly, ducking her head down to look at the bloody tissues in her hand. Wait until he finds out what she's about to ask of him. ''Ollie,'' she lifts her head so she can meet his eyes. ''What you do...'' She trails off uncertainly. This is much harder than she thought it would be. ''What you do for this city as the Green Arrow is incredible,'' she tells him, honestly. ''I know you beat yourself up a lot for not doing enough but you're trying. You're trying to make a difference here. That means something. You do what you need to do to protect the people here. That's why I'm talking to you right now. No one else.''

He looks at her, mouth turned down into a worried frown. ''Laurel,'' he says slowly. ''Does anyone else know you're here?'' His eager to help expression has shifted at some point during her speech. He's looking at her with this patronizing mix of concern and thinly veiled exasperation. It's something familiar. He's always been skilled at turning his concern into condescension.

''You know how I was brought back,'' she says, ''and you know why. You know that whoever did this wanted me to be their tool.''

''I know they failed,'' he retorts. ''You're not anyone's tool. You're just - You're Laurel.''

She attempts a smile. ''For now,'' she agrees. ''That doesn't mean they'll fail next time. They're going to come for me,'' she says, flatly. ''We all know that.''

''They can try.''

''If they take me - ''

''They _won't_.''

''But if they _do_ ,'' she insists, turning in the seat to angle her body towards him. ''They'll make me a weapon. I can't be anyone's weapon. I'll hurt people.'' Her lips thin. She looks up at him, pleading. ''I don't want to hurt anyone.''

That's when it clicks for him. She can see it in his eyes; the exact moment he realizes what she's about to ask of him. ''Laurel.'' She can't remember the last time he said her name like that. ''What are you doing? What is it that you need?''

''I need you to choose the safety of this city over me,'' she says as if it is somehow that simple. ''And I know you will,'' she tacks on hurriedly. ''Because that's the kind of person you are. If I become a danger to this city and the people in it, you have to take me out.''

''No.''

''Oliver.''

''No.'' He physically recoils from her. ''Absolutely not. You can't ask me to do this. You're asking me to kill you.''

''I'm asking you to help me.''

The soft look in his eyes hardens and he sends her this pained, betrayed scowl before looking away from her completely. ''This isn't fair,'' his voice is low. ''Asking me to do this. This isn't - ''

''I know,'' she murmurs. ''I'm sorry.'' She leans in closer to him so she can place a hand on his knee. ''But it has to be done. You know that.''

He doesn't say anything to her for the longest time, looking down at her hand like he's trying to decide whether or not it's okay for him to touch her back. ''Why me?'' He asks. ''Why come to me and not - ''

''I can't,'' she draws her hand back and shrinks away from him. ''I can't ask him to - ''

''But you can ask me.''

''It's different with you. He wouldn't be able to do this.''

He huffs incredulously. ''And you think I can?''

''I trust you,'' she says, as gentle as possible. She meets his eyes again. She tries to make herself look as small and as vulnerable as possible. It's not often she thinks about it anymore, but she and Oliver will always have a piece of each other. That's how first loves work. There is a corner of his heart that she will always know. There is a piece there just for her. She never intended to use that against him like this.

This is not something she does. Nevertheless, this is important. Desperate times. ''My family,'' she starts. ''They went through so much when I died. And in the months after. With - With the investigation and everything.'' She sees him flinch when she mentions that, guilt pooling in his eyes. Now she's got him on the hook. ''I know losing me again would hurt them but I can't be their villain. Please, Ollie, please. Help me. I need you to help me.''

He's not looking at her. He's staring straight ahead, torn up. It's only when he lets out this slow, controlled breath that she knows she's got him. ''They're not going to get you,'' he says, deceptively calm. ''We're going to make sure of that. But if they do...'' He stops. ''I'll protect this city. You have my word.''

She hasn't quite been able to figure out what his word means to her in the years since he's been home. Still, she smiles at him. It's real this time. ''Thank you.''

He doesn't say anything for a prolonged awkward moment but he looks at her very closely, like he's trying to find something in her eyes. He frowns curiously. ''You trust me?''

She presses her lips together and clears her throat, looking down at her husband's car keys in her hands. That depends on what he means, to be honest. Does she trust him the way she did ten years ago? Hell no. But if there is one thing she has learned since becoming Black Canary, it's that there are different kinds of trust. She lifts her gaze to him once more and offers him one more soft smile. ''Oliver,'' she shakes her head with a slow, quiet chuckle. ''How many rooftops have I jumped off of with nothing but the faith that you would catch me?''

His lips quirk up into a quick smile. ''I think I lost count somewhere along the way.''

''Exactly,'' she laughs. ''That's trust, you know,'' she adds, and scoots over so she can take his hand and squeeze it gently. ''I trust you,'' she promises. ''Don't make me regret that.''

.

.

.

Okay.

That felt awful.

Laurel shuts the front door behind her and turns to face the empty living room. She closes her eyes and listens to the quiet sound of her grandmother's clock ticking the minutes away.

She doesn't regret what she asked him. Not really. Had to be done. She just hates the way that went down. Emotional manipulation is not a tactic she loves to use. It's not something she resorts to often. At least not outside the courtroom. Certainly not to this extent. It is not something to be proud of. She's had it done to her enough to know how shitty it feels. She just...

She didn't know what else to do.

The witches will come for their prize and if they get their hands on her, they _will_ take her soul. It isn't a question. They chose her for a reason. They may have made some mistakes in the process but they did succeed in resurrecting her and activating her Cry. They're going to come for her sooner or later. There's no way they won't. People don't want to talk about that. She was there that day in the destroyed bunker when Sam and Cas informed everyone else about the spell, about what had been done to her, about what it did and why she was brought back. She saw the looks on their faces. The horror, the fear. She noticed when nobody would look her in the eye. She notices how some of them still have trouble looking her in the eye.

Cas is the only one who is willing to talk to her truthfully about what could have happened and about what could still happen. He's the one out there trying to track down an angel so they can make sure her soul is still intact and functional. He's the one trying to figure out whether or not she's a danger to everyone. Dean hasn't brought up the soulless thing since that first day, and he always shuts her down when she tries to bring it up. It scares him. Not just the prospect of her being soulless but how close she came to being dehumanized and weaponized. How close she came to being something he would have needed to stop.

He understands what it's like to be carved into something else. Made into a blunt instrument instead of a person. She understands why he doesn't want to think about it happening to her. She understands why nobody wants to think about how shaky all of this is or how she is one spell away from being turned into their next villain. They're scared. She's sorry for that. She doesn't want them to be scared. She wants them to be ready.

That's why she needed to put a plan in place for if she turns. She needed someone to make that promise to her, and Oliver was the best option. Dean would fight the sun to protect her. So would Sara and Thea. Sam and Cas would fall in line behind Dean. Sure, they would tell her what she wanted to hear. In the moment, they might even mean it. They would never be able to follow through.

Oliver is different. He'll do what he has to. If Felicity was the one in this position, maybe he wouldn't. He would burn this whole city down to save her. He and Felicity would both do awful, terrible things for each other. Laurel is not Felicity. She doesn't mean as much to them. And that's good. In this case, her expendability is one of the biggest tools she has at her disposal. It means he should be able to make the right decision when the time comes.

Laurel kicks her shoes off and pads down the hall and into the bathroom, dropping her keys and her jacket onto the table as she passes. She tosses the bloody tissues into the trash and washes the dried blood off her hands, scrubbing it off her skin and digging it out from under her fingernails. When she's sure it's all gone, she splashes her face with cold water a few times and reaches blindly for a towel.

She does her best to avoid her reflection these days because she knows what she'll see, but she can't help herself. She peeks out from behind the towel to look at herself in the mirror. She's paler than before, she thinks. Back when she was alive, she had this glow. Especially in those last few months. It had nothing to do with the pregnancy. It was because she was, for the first time in a long time, healthy. It showed in her glowing skin. She doesn't look healthy right now. She's pale and there are dark smudges under her eyes that won't go away. There is this sickly, almost frail look to her these days. She tries to cover it up with makeup and with false cheerfulness, but it won't leave.

She doesn't look much like herself. Laurel clenches the towel in her hands. She leans in closer to her reflection so she can inspect her face. She eyes the dark circles, her pores, her nose, her eyelashes, her chapped lips. She is not a corpse anymore. She is not under the earth, lifeless and cold, and then scared and suffocating. She is here, alive. She is _not_ rotting.

So why does it feel like she is?

Laurel steps back and turns away from the mirror, still clutching the towel in her hands.

Months ago, back in January, she and her doctors had started discussing the possibility of getting her back onto a controlled dose of medication with careful monitoring. Addiction or not, she had to be treated. Therapy was a great resource and a great treatment but it wasn't the only thing there was. Medication wasn't something she was super excited about but she is hardly the first addict to need antidepressants. When you're sick, you do what you have to do to treat it so that you can live your life. She knows that. Yet she still hadn't been able to pull the trigger on the meds. Even with the support of her doctor, her therapist, an addiction counselor, her sponsor, and Dean. In her mind, it hadn't been long enough. She wasn't ready. Her sobriety was still too fragile. She was still prone to a relapse.

''You're always going to be prone to a relapse, Laurel,'' Renee, her sponsor, had informed her. ''You're an addict.''

Still, she just couldn't do it. Nobody pushed her. Her therapist told her they would table the discussion, give it a few months, keep an eye on her, and then circle back to the idea. Currently, she's really wishing she had agreed to take the damn pills. She might have something for right now. Something to take the edge off. That alone tells her that she was right to opt out of the idea back then.

She swallows hard and tries to shake herself out of it, looking down at her hands. They're not healed yet, not completely, but they're getting there. She can wear her wedding rings again. She can use them. She turns her hands over to look at the lines on her palms. Mary wants to paint her nails for her. Laurel looks at her nails. She used to paint them black. Red or green during the holidays. White on her wedding day. Sometimes she used to let Mary pick a color for her. But mostly she kept them black. It was her go to because it went with every outfit. She doesn't think she can do that again. It reminds her too much of decay and rot. The way a corpse's fingernails turn black and fall off.

''Laur?''

She startles, barely managing to stifle a gasp as she wheels around.

Dean is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching her with careful eyes. ''Sorry,'' he attempts a smile. ''I didn't mean to scare you.'' His smile looks tired. He still looks too careful, standing there in the doorway. Too concerned. ''Sweetheart,'' the smile slips as he steps into the bathroom. ''You okay?''

She blinks at him. ''How long have you been standing there?'' She's feeling irrationally irriated that he somehow managed to sneak up on her. She should have heard him. People don't sneak up on the Black Canary. ''Shouldn't you be at work?''

''Right, yeah, but I...'' He glances back over his shoulder and down the hall, but never finishes his sentence. She can hear the sound of someone else moving around in the living room. She's going to guess Sam. Or Cas. Possibly both.

She drops her gaze down to his left hand. She's always been able to tell when he's stressed about something because that's when the tremor in his hand acts up. He usually tries to cover it up by clenching his fists or subtly shaking his hand out, refusing to allow people to see that he has a weakness. He's not even trying to cover it up today. She wonders if that's because he's comfortable enough around her to let her see it, or because he doesn't realize it's happening. She hopes it's the first option because the last time he was too out of it to notice the tremor was when he was detoxing.

Dean tilts his head to the side and frowns at her. ''Is that blood on your shirt?''

She looks down at the droplets of blood and folds her arms over her chest, somewhat defensively. ''Oh, yeah. I had a nosebleed.'' She shrugs. ''No biggie.''

''You don't get nosebleeds.''

She's not sure how he manages to make that sentence sound accusatory, but she doesn't like it. She tries to laugh it off. ''Everyone gets nosebleeds, Dean,'' she says. ''And don't worry, I didn't get any in your car.''

''You - wait. When were you in my car?''

''I went for a drive.''

''You shouldn't drive so soon after a seizure.''

''I was restless. You're the one who left the keys with me.''

''For an emergency.''

''It was an emergency,'' she says. ''I needed air.''

''Sara could have - ''

''Sara's busy. Dean,'' she rubs at her forehead tiredly. ''I don't have a medical condition. I had one seizure when I got my memories back after being magically resurrected. There are no guidelines to follow here.''

He crosses his arms over his chest, mimicking her body language. ''You collapsed yesterday morning, Laurel.''

''Oh my god, I did not collapse,'' she hisses. ''I had...'' She sinks her teeth into her lower lip. ''...An _episode_.'' An episode of dizziness that did technically lead to her on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, trying not to throw up and waiting impatiently for the world to stabilize. It was not a ''collapse.'' He wouldn't even know about it if she had just been quicker to get back to her feet. She's going to have to remember that for next time. ''Don't be dramatic about it.''

''Dramatic? I'm not - okay.'' He shakes his head. ''I'm not doing this with you.'' He looks back down at the drops of blood on her shirt like they're some kind of terrible sign of impending doom. ''Are you okay now? How much blood did you lose?''

She relaxes slightly, letting her arms fall to her sides. She's getting a little annoyed with his hovering, yes, but she supposes she can't really blame him. ''Honey.'' She steps into his space to curl a hand around his neck. ''It's fine. I'm fine.'' She pulls him down so she can kiss his lips softly. ''You have got to stop worrying about every little thing,'' she says, patting his chest lightly before brushing past him.

''I'm not worrying about every little thing,'' he protests, following after her into the bedroom. ''I'm demonstrating a healthy amount of concern for the wellbeing of my recently undead wife.''

She arches an eyebrow at him. ''I'm not undead.''

''Well,'' he closes the bedroom door behind him, but doesn't move closer to her. ''Whatever. Same difference.''

''Not really,'' she mutters. She peels her shirt off, dropping it in the hamper and rifling around in the drawer for a clean one. ''Undead typically means zombies. I am not a zombie.''

He doesn't respond to that. He's quiet for about five seconds. ''Seriously,'' he blurts out, because he can't help himself. ''You're good? No dizzy spells? Panic attacks? Unexplained projectile pea soup puke?''

She heaves a sigh and throws a weak glare in his direction. ''I'm not possessed either.'' She grabs the first shirt she finds and throws it on. ''No dizzy spells. No panic attacks. No seizures. It was just a nosebleed. It wasn't the apocalypse.''

''Okay, okay,'' he holds his hands up in surrender. ''I'm dropping it.''

''Thank you.'' She tugs at the suspiciously loose t-shirt she pulled over her head and looks down at it. She pulls at the fabric with a frown. She's pretty sure this is a maternity shirt. Whatever. It's clean.

''So,'' he clears his throat. ''Just to be clear: You _didn't_ get any blood on my seats?''

A small smile tugs at her lips. ''No.''

He nods, and then gets a familiar look in his eyes. ''Blood would still be easier to clean than - ''

''Oh, not this again.''

'' - Amniotic fluid all over the - ''

''I told you to put a towel down when we went out for breakfast that morning!''

''Why didn't you remind - ''

''You,'' she points a finger at him, ''knew I was having contractions that morning. You knew I was overdue. I had other things on my mind. Things like panicking. And pain.'' She takes a seat on the edge of the bed. ''Mostly the first one.''

He laughs. It's a warm, deep, comfortingly familiar sound. Hearing it makes her entire body relax.

''Besides,'' she adds, as he sits down next to her, close enough that their knees are touching. ''I gave you a child, buddy. If you don't think she's cooler than a car, you and I are going to have a problem.''

''Can she be a close second?''

''No.''

''Fine, but don't tell Baby she's been demoted.''

''Oh, sweetie.'' She bites down hard on her lip to stifle a smile and swallows down a small chuckle. ''You might need to go back to therapy.'' He laughs again, just as comforting as it was the first time. When he rests a hand on her knee, she loops her arm through his and props her chin up on his shoulder. ''What are you doing home in the middle of the day anyway?''

He doesn't answer. He doesn't look at her either. He's looking down at her knee, where he's rubbing circles on her awful but extremely comfortable floral patterned leggings with his thumb. He hasn't even made fun of them. He usually has no problem playing fashion police with her. She has this off the shoulder shirt and every time she wears it, he makes 80's jokes, asking her if she's forgotten her leg warmers, or calling her Jane Fonda. One time, they went shopping together and he wound up disappearing while she was trying on clothes only to pop his head out from behind a sales rack while she was admiring a wrap dress just to inform her, ''It's just a fancy bathrobe!'' He is forever teasing her about her ''tacky ass'' rings and her beloved Converse. It never bothers her beyond an eye roll or a blush because he's joking and also because he is unexpectedly and weirdly fashionable when he wants to be, but it's definitely strange that he hasn't made a comment about her leggings. She was expecting, ''Aww, hon, did your garden throw up on you?'' Or some crack about Lularoe. She was kind of looking forward to it. She had a rebuttal all ready and everything. It was about flannel.

''Remember when Cas said he was going to track down an angel to check and make sure that everything's okay with your soul?'' He finally asks, quietly.

She pauses, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. ''I do.''

''Is that still something you want to do?''

''Yes.'' She doesn't hesitate for a second. ''I need to know.''

He nods slowly and then says, ''How do you feel about doing that today?''

.

.

.

So, here's the story:

Thea's had this recurring nightmare since April.

It doesn't happen every single night, but it's something she can't get away from. She's done everything in her power to keep busy. To take an active role in her healing. Or at least to overwork herself to the point of exhaustion so that she'll be able to sleep so heavily her body forgets to remember what she dreamt. She's the Chief of Staff for the new Mayor, she's Mary's nanny, she cares for the dead. She has spent seven months running from this dream, but it's no use. It still finds her.

She's having a dinner party. She's wearing a red dress. She is sitting in the dining room of the house she grew up in. It's just as cavernous and hollow feeling as it used to be. She is surrounded by all her friends and family. Oliver, Dean, Mary, the rest of the Winchester family, the Lance family, Felicity and the Diggles, even Barry and the Star Labs crew. Roy is sitting next to her. Sometimes his arm is slung over her shoulder. Sometimes it's resting on her knee. He never looks at her, and she can only see the side of his face. Dean and Oliver are, strangely, sitting next to each other, across from her. They are the only ones who ever look directly at her.

These are metaphors, you see.

Roy is with her but not really. The big brothers always have one eye on her, even when they don't need to. She is alone in a crowded room. It's the story of her life.

Everyone is laughing and having a good time. They're all joking and getting along the way families are supposed to. The way she wishes they would. She is not laughing. She is always the odd one out. She's missed the joke and no one will repeat it for her.

Laurel is sitting at the head of the table.

She's not laughing either. She is sitting stiffly in her throne like chair, removed from everyone else, but still watching them closely. She's not the happy, healthy Laurel that Thea has been trying so hard to remember. She is something grotesque and frightening. In her nightmare, Laurel sits at the head of the table wearing the dress Thea picked out for her, hollowed out and dead. Her lips are colorless, her eyes vacant and sunken in, her skin a sickly shade of gray, so unnaturally pale that Thea can see the veins through her skin. She keeps coughing, hacking into a tissue because she's choking on the embalming fluid they filled her with.

There is a bloody arrow lying on her empty plate, dripping dark red blood onto the perfectly white tablecloth. She doesn't look like Laurel. Not the one who she called when she got her first period and not the one who walked into that prison with her in April. There's something wrong with her face. There's something wrong with her eyes. She doesn't sound like Laurel either. Her voice is deeper and hoarse from disuse and all the coughing. It sounds slurred, like she's having trouble getting the words out around her swollen tongue and the fluid leaking out of her mouth. She only ever says one thing.

''Why aren't you laughing, Thea?''

She is never angry when she says this. Never cruel or harsh. She's not trying to hurt. She's dead. She's not a monster. She garbles out the question in this quiet, mostly emotionless voice and Thea can never answer her. She tries but she feels trapped in her seat, staring at Laurel in terror while everyone else around her ignores the horror movie they're stuck in.

It's such a gruesome version of someone she loved. Some animated but empty shell, coughing up chemicals, barely there. It's a ghoulish nightmare, a festering wound created by the images of Laurel in the morgue, Laurel in her casket, empty and scraped free of everything that made her feel like home.

Oddly enough, the part that sticks with Thea even when she's awake is that the Laurel in her dream is holding a wine glass.

Every time she has this nightmare, Thea winds up waking up with a gasp, sweat beading on her forehead, heart stuttering in her chest. There's pressure behind her eyes, guilt gnawing away at her because she's mad at her own subconscious for having Laurel break her sobriety in her nightmare, and all she really wants is to crawl into bed with her mom. She lies still, alone in the dark, irrationally terrified of rolling over and finding a decaying body in the bed with her, asking her why she's not laughing.

Sometimes she thinks about getting up and tip toeing out into the kitchen just to check and see if Laurel is there, breathing and picking through the leftover lo mein with her fingers. There are footsteps outside her bedroom some nights. She knows it's Dean, wandering the halls like a ghost instead of sleeping, but sometimes she finds herself wondering if this house is haunted. Not by the ghost of a person but by the echoes of the family that used to live here. The people they were before the fall.

This house feels so big and empty without her, and this house is anything but big. Dean and Laurel's snug house in the suburbs is nothing like the house Thea grew up in. Twenty minutes outside the downtown core, longer if there's traffic, away from all the chaos and the lights, is a cramped three bedroom house. It has a garage that's too big, one permanently cluttered bathroom that has a habit of causing fights, a kitchen that Dean complains about all the time, and an endless amount of warmth. The floors in this house are never quite clear; always a few stray toys left behind by Mary or a pair of heels left lying forgotten on the floor. The garage is full of workout gear, holiday decorations, the boxes they're storing for Sara, and gardening tools. There is always enough food to feed an army in the house because there is always some Winchester family member passing through town. And there are books. The house is full of them. They're in every room.

She remembers when she first moved in here, it took her a few weeks to adjust. This place isn't what she had expected from Laurel. She's so carefully put together, not a hair out of place, makeup done impeccably. It's not that the house is some messy hoarder hideaway. It's lived in. Stuffed to the brim and overflowing with mementos of normal life. This house is a home. It's not full of things. It's full of life.

When you walk in here, you're home. They make sure of it.

Mary, with her mountains of toys, her sweet little laugh, and her band aid collection. The easiest person in the world to adore. She's shy at first, preferring the company of animals rather than the company of humans and clinging to her parents like lifelines. If you go slow and stay gentle then she'll let you in and she'll let you know how things work around here. She is, after all, the brains of the operation. She's the one they've built this for.

Then there's Dean, who quietly runs the household, seamlessly fixing and mending and cooking, slotting things into place. All without expecting so much as a thank you in return. It seems like an uncharacteristic gentleness from the outside, like it should be strange for someone like him to be so easily domesticated, but it's not. If you get to know him, you'll quickly realize that this is who he's always been and this is what he's been doing for his entire life; building homes for the people he loves. Safe spaces for them to fall back to, weaving safety nets so that they will always have a soft place to land. He's the glue of this family, even if he doesn't know it.

And Laurel. The center of it all. The gravity of this home. Somehow, it all falls back to her. She was the beating heart. It's funny. Thea has known Laurel for a long time, over half her life, but she didn't really know her at all until she moved in here. This house, this home, is who Laurel truly is. She is in every part of it from the foundation up. She's the clutter, the warmth, the apple tree and the garden in the backyard, the lavender shampoo in the bathroom, the fancy French dark roast coffee in the kitchen. She is all of it, a specter of laughter and love, of life and light, that fills every inch of this place. Like many things in this city, Laurel's fingerprints are all over this space.

It's been an honor to be part of her family, and to be let into this strange, strange world of Winchesters and Lances. Thea never realized how cold her house was until she moved in here and was finally warm.

She used to sleep in on Sunday mornings and when she woke up and emerged from her room, she would find them together. Sometimes she would find them in the living room. Dean would be sitting on the floor, back against the couch, surrounded by the Saturday laundry, folding and sorting, with Mary - still in her pajamas - half ''helping'' and half ''dancing'' along to the Pixies song playing in the background. Then Laurel would drift into the room with two cups of coffee, wearing her Sunday morning uniform - hair piled on top of her head, glasses perched on her nose, face scrubbed free of makeup, wearing those truly ugly plaid pajama shorts, that old Bowie t-shirt, and bunny slippers because she is a bunny slipper kind of person. She'd hand a mug to Dean, greet Thea with a cheerful smile, and then settle herself on the floor, beckoning Mary over to her so they could work on her speech therapy and sign language.

Other mornings, especially in the Spring and Summer, she would find them outside. Dean, sitting at the table, leaning back in the chair with his coffee, watching Laurel do yoga or garden and listening to Mary, her mom's little shadow, giggle as she tried to mimic her mom's every move.

Occasionally, on these Sunday mornings, one of them would wake her up at an obnoxiously early time to go out for breakfast. Laurel would creep into the darkened bedroom, gently shake her awake, and whisper, ''Hey, sweetheart, we're going out for breakfast. Do you want to come or should we just bring you back something?''

Meanwhile, Dean would barge into her room like the fucking Kool Aid man, slamming the door open, turning the light on, and yanking open the curtains. ''Up and at 'em, kid!'' He'd holler, snatching her pillow from under her head. ''Get dressed, it's waffle time!''

This is an incredible family to be a part of.

When Laurel came home, even though all the blood and the graveyard dirt and the trauma, Thea had been so foolishly excited. So ready to get it all back. Naively, she thought they would get those Sunday mornings back. She thought the nightmare would go away. The truth looks different in the light of day. The truth is, the nightmare doesn't go away. Laurel's return can't erase the past seven months. Thea sincerely wishes that was the case.

She wants, more than anything, for things to go back to the way they were. Or, barring that, to be able to pretend that things have gone back to normal. It's hard to pretend everything's okie dokie when she walks in the front door and all she hears is Laurel screaming in agony because some random angel is wrist deep in her soul. Which is how her day is going so far.

The only reason she came home was because she wanted some peace and quiet to make some phone calls before Mary got home from preschool. She has work to do. Oliver made some stupid joke about swimsuit fashion on his twitter last night and she's spent the morning trying to make sure it won't become a thing. It was a completely innocuous joke. Very, very dry but ultimately harmless. She knows that because she knows her brother. Other people don't. If some tabloid wanted to spin it in a pervy direction, they probably could. Lord knows he has a whole slew of past indiscretions that would help further that narrative. Thea spent the entire summer trying to improve his likability among the citizens of Star City, especially the millennials. Everyone knows the millennial vote is going to be essential to reelection and she has been working since day one to get them to like Oliver. She will not let him tear down all her hard work with a now deleted dumbass tweet. So she really should be working on burying the story and getting shit stirrers to calm the fuck down.

Instead she's making tea. Lavender chamomile, to be exact. She's never liked chamomile. She thinks it tastes like a mouthful of dirt. The addition of lavender just makes it taste like floral dirt. Laurel likes it, though. It's what she drinks to de-stress and there's been maximum stress today. So Thea is making her some tea. She can't do anything else. She can make her calls in a bit and smooth over whatever damage has been done in regards to Oliver's tweet but all she can do for Laurel is make her some tea.

Angels, she has learned, are odd.

The one who came here today to check Laurel's soul, Samandriel, was polite and genuine in his want to help. Doesn't change the fact that angels are odd. Thea wasn't in the room when the soul examination or whatever the fuck that was happening but she heard the screaming. She heard the sobbing after too. It was worth it, she supposes, because Laurel's soul is indeed in the right place and - according to Samandriel - aside from a few ''cracks'' it is mostly intact. That's good news.

Thea opens the squeaky cupboard and snatches a mug. She grabs the tin of loose leaf lavender chamomile from the other cupboard and measures it into the strainer carefully. She leans back against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. The kitchen is quiet. Laurel is still huddled in bed, recovering from what was apparently an extremely painful experience and probably staunchly refusing to take even the pain medications that her doctors have previously said are okay to take. Dean and Sara are with her, most likely begging her to at least take an Advil. Sam left to pick up Mary from preschool. And Cas is still talking to Samandriel out on the front stoop.

She wonders, briefly, about how Cas feels seeing an angel. People seem to forget that she has read the Carver Edlund series. Granted, she skimmed a lot of it because there was a lot of information that felt really intrusive to read. She didn't feel right reading about Dean and Sam's shitty childhood or other private information without their explicit consent. And she really did not want to read their sex scenes. But she did read about the things they did. The monsters they fought. The apocalypse. Cas was a big part of that. He was this all powerful angel. She wonders how he feels being cut off from that now that he's human. She wonders if he ever regrets his choice to Fall. Does he miss it? Does he miss his brothers and sisters? Does he miss the fighting? Or is he content where he is? Living beside the danger instead of directly in it.

...It's possible she's projecting.

Thea picks at her cuticles and stands in the silence of the kitchen, still waiting for the kettle. Inexplicably, she thinks about the first night she spent in this house.

She dragged herself and all her broken pieces here, feeling lost without her brother and shaken up because of everything that had happened, and Laurel just let her in. No questions asked. ''The guest room is yours for as long as you need it,'' she'd said with a smile. ''I know it's not much but - ''

''I don't need much,'' Thea cut in. ''I just - I guess I didn't want to be alone.''

Laurel laughed then. It lit up her eyes. ''Then I have some good news for you, Speedy.'' She sat down next to Thea on the end of the bed and took her hand. ''As long as you're here, you will never be alone. I can promise you that.''

It was a promise she kept until her dying day. Beyond, actually. Nobody here is ever alone.

Dean and Laurel don't understand how much it means to people that they leave the porch light on every night for anyone who may need a soft place to land. They just see it as part of their life. The right thing to do. This home - and more specifically the people in it - is like a beacon in the night for vigilantes and hunters alike. Whether you're six degrees of Winchester or six degrees of Superhero, lost along the way or just passing through, this is where you stop. No matter what you've faced, you can always come home.

This place did not stop being a beacon for lost souls when Laurel died. They still came and went. They were given shelter, a hot meal, and a place to stay because Dean is still Dean, even without Laurel. But it was different. There's no getting around that. He was quieter. More withdrawn. Tired all the time. His friends and family all started ''passing through town'' a lot for people who usually operated in the Midwest. Whenever it was Jody or Nyssa or Garth, he would be kicked out of his own kitchen and told to go take a nap or sit down. He left the porch light on every night, but it quickly became clear that he wasn't just leaving it on so that extended family could find their way home. It was so Laurel could. Things here were strange without Laurel. Off balance. Colder.

Things are even stranger now.

The porch light has been off every night for a week.

What Samandriel said was that Laurel is _mostly_ unchanged. That's the thing. ''She has some cracks,'' he said. ''That's to be expected. She does have her soul. It's right where it should be. Mostly unchanged. It should be fine.'' He was very kind as he said this. He was clearly trying to be reassuring. But the exact word he used was _mostly._

Thea thinks of the Laurel who promised her she would never be alone here, soft and sweet with this unbroken righteousness, a fierce determination, and all this intense bravery. Then she thinks of this new Laurel, the one who crawled out of her grave, can't sleep through the night without brutal nightmares, and still can't take showers without panicking. She wonders if this Laurel, weary and fragile and cut off from her warmth, would make that same promise.

Laurel was dead. She was in the ground for seven months. Thea was barely dead at all and her resurrection still massively fucked her up. Sara was dead for a year and she came back soulless, feral, and with a major hate on for anyone who even vaguely resembled Thea. Laurel may not have had her soul warped by the Lazarus Pit but something is wrong with her. Thea knows this. She can feel it. She can tell just by looking at her. This is not Laurel. Not the one they lost anyway.

Maybe this is just her being sentimental. Maybe she's just childishly clinging to the life they had before, the Sunday mornings, the porch light left on, but why is that wrong? Why can't anyone else see what she sees? Why are they all so quick to accept that there is no going back?

Behind her, the kettle starts screeching. She turns quickly, turning the heat off and pouring the water into the mug. She lets the tea step for a few minutes and then picks up the mug and turns to the door just as it swings open. She stops suddenly, narrowly avoiding sloshing hot tea all over her shirt.

''Thea.'' Laurel looks surprised to see her. ''I - I thought you went to go pick up Mary.''

''Nope.'' Thea puts the mug down on the counter and snatches a paper towel off the roll to clean up the small splash of tea on the floor. ''Sam went to get her.'' She looks up, inspecting Laurel briefly. She looks a little clammy and she's shaking in that specific way she does after a bad panic attack but she looks otherwise physically okay. It's her eyes that set off Thea's internal alarm bells. Her eyes don't look right. Thea stands up straight, moving over to toss the paper towel. ''I made you tea,'' she says, nodding to the mug on the counter. ''It's lavender chamomile.''

''Oh.'' Laurel smiles faintly but doesn't look all that interested in tea. ''Thank you. That was sweet of you.'' She smiles once more but it doesn't reach her eyes. ''Um, I'm actually just going to get some air right now. I'll - I'll be back in a few minutes.'' Unexpectedly, rather than turn and exit the kitchen to go outside, she veers left and ducks into the garage.

Thea stares after her, eyebrows raised. Fresh air. In the garage? She frowns, tilting her head to the side in bewilderment, and then she remembers something. The look in Laurel's eyes. She doesn't have a name for it, but she knows what it means. It's not quite hunger, not quite thirst, and not quite desperate, but it's close. She waits a minute, desperately hoping Dean will burst into the kitchen so he can deal with this because she is so not qualified. He never comes. She picks up the steaming mug of tea and holds it in her hands, weighing her options here.

 _Human caused._

That was another thing Samandriel said.

''Some of the damage is from the spell,'' he told them, ''but most of the cracks are older. Human caused, most likely. Magic leaves a stain, but human suffering causes the deepest wounds.'' Quite frankly, she would want a drink after hearing that too. Except she's not an alcoholic. Suddenly, and perhaps unfairly, she's furious. Two years. Two years sober and she's going to throw it all away less than a week after coming home? All because some angel dude reminded her of her suffering? When her four year old is about to come home?

She narrows her eyes and follows after her, pushing open the door to the chilly garage. Sure enough, there's Laurel. She's rummaging around in the boxes of holiday decorations, moving from Halloween to Christmas to the Fourth of July. The frustration drains out of Thea as quickly as it swept over her. She shuts the door behind her but doesn't move from her spot on the steps, clutching the tea she made for Laurel. ''It's not there.''

Laurel stops, back going ramrod straight but she doesn't turn around. After a second, her shoulders slump and she tilts her head back to the look up at the ceiling.

Thea takes a sip of the tea. It still tastes like floral dirt. ''He found it a few weeks back and got rid of it.''

''Oh,'' says Laurel, very quietly. She looks down into the box marked 'Xmas Lights' and grips the sides so tightly the cardboard bends in her grasp. She does turn around after a few seconds of breathing deeply, eyes finding Thea. ''I wasn't going to drink it.''

Thea nods, even though she knows that's a lie. ''Okay.'' She considers taking another sip of the tea in an attempt to look casual but she really doesn't like chamomile tea. ''Why did you have it?''

The answer to that comes quickly, unflinchingly honest and blunt. ''Because I'm an alcoholic.''

Can't argue with that. ''Yes,'' she agrees. ''You are.''

Laurel doesn't move away from the box. ''It was like a safety net,'' she admits. ''I never opened the bottle. I didn't even look at it after I put it in here. But I knew it was here if I...'' She pauses. ''If I needed it.''

''And you need it now?''

''Yes.'' A breath. ''I don't know.'' She closes her eyes briefly and pushes a hand through her hair. ''He threw it away?''

''Yep.'' Thea settles herself down on the steps like the cold concrete is the most comfortable spot in the world. ''He poured it down the drain.'' She ignores Laurel's wince and holds out the mug. ''You should drink your tea. It's supposed to be calming.''

Laurel doesn't look like she wants to move away from the box just in case her bottle of wine magically reappears. Thea's not sure if she should push her or not. She's not sure what to do here at all. Dean would know what to do. He's an alcoholic. He's been here before. Eventually, Laurel does move away from the box. She shuffles over to Thea, sits down heavily on the steps next to her, and accepts the tea.

Thea lets out a breath of relief. It's a bigger victory than it appears. ''How long did you have it?'' She asks after a minute.

Laurel sips at her tea. ''Since we brought Sara back from Nanda Parbat.''

Thea bites back a grimace. ''Yeah,'' she murmurs. ''That would do it.'' She looks at Laurel out of the corner of her eye. They're close enough that their shoulders and knees are touching. She pretends not to notice the way her hands are shaking. She tries not to stare too much. It's hard not to. A week isn't long enough to drain away the awe. She didn't think she would ever see her again and yet here she is. How do you not stare? Recurring nightmare or not, how do you not stare?

Laurel glances over at her, catching her eye briefly. Thea hurriedly looks away, warmth flooding to her cheeks, mildly embarrassed at being caught. Laurel doesn't say anything about the staring but she does offer her a quiet, ''I'm sorry.''

This time, when Thea looks at her, it's out of disbelief. ''For what?''

''I scared you.''

Thea stares at her, mouth open soundlessly. The first thought that pops into her head is the nightmare. The dinner party. The corpse at the head of the table. The bloody arrow. _Why aren't you laughing, Thea?_ Does she know? How could she -

''Usually I can control the cravings,'' Laurel goes on, and Thea lets out a breath, closing her eyes. ''I call my sponsor or I talk to Dean or I just breathe through it.'' She takes another gulp of tea. ''I guess I haven't really been myself lately. And I don't have a sponsor anymore.''

''You don't have to apologize,'' Thea says. ''We all have our triggers. Something traumatic happened to you. You have a right to respond to that. And you _didn't_ drink. Maybe you thought about it but you didn't.'' The _'yet'_ is left unsaid, hanging heavily in the space between them.

Laurel drinks her tea. She doesn't smile. She doesn't look all that comforted. But she does relax just a little bit.

They lapse into a semi comfortable silence. Thea spends a few minutes trying to come up with something they can talk about that isn't idle chit chat about the weather like they're just strangers on a train. All she manages to come up with is, ''Oliver has a twitter now.''

Laurel swings her attention back to Thea, wrinkling her nose in bemusement. ''What?''

''I made Ollie get a twitter over the summer.''

''Why?''

''Because he inherited a dumpster fire,'' Thea states bluntly. ''City Hall is a wreck, and Oliver has no idea what he's doing. Instead of putting out the fire, he just fanned the flames. Especially in the first couple of months. His approval rating was consistently in the gutter. But he's been a well known public figure for years, he's young, and I know he has his fans so I thought it would be a good idea to cultivate a social media presence and connect with the younger constituents. I wanted him to look relatable to millennials. I know it sounds ridiculous - ''

''No, it doesn't,'' Laurel cuts in, knocking her knee against Thea's. ''It actually sounds brilliant.'' She beams at her over the rim of her mug. ''Did it work?''

''His approval rating went up among the younger crowd,'' Thea confirms. ''Buzzfeed even did one of those clickbaity lists about his best tweets. Gen Xers and Baby Boomers still think he's a buffoon though.''

''Well, he _is_ a buffoon, honey.''

''Yes, but - ''

''You have to remember that those people watched him grow up through scandalous tabloid covers and your family's continued flaunting of their wealth.''

''His past doesn't mean he's incompetent in the present.''

''I agree but humans are flawed and stubborn,'' Laurel shrugs. ''Whether they acknowledge that he's changed or not, that's still who he is to them. It's going to take a lot to rehabilitate his image in their eyes. Especially among blue-collar workers who still look at him and see the entitled, spoiled brat who - oh, I don't know - crashed his brand new Porsche into a utility pole during an illegal street race, knocked out power in a residential area in the Glades full of factory workers, and was shown laughing about it on the local news. And that's just one example of pre island Oliver publicly laughing at the misfortune of others.''

''He wasn't laughing at - ''

''I know,'' Laurel says, patting Thea's knee. ''But they don't.''

Thea nods slowly. Unfortunately, she can't say that any of that is wrong. It is going to take an awful lot to rehabilitate Oliver's image. But she knew that already. She just wanted to get Laurel's mind off alcohol and onto something else. ''I made my staff do some cold calling,'' she reveals. ''Younger people seem to have a generally favorable opinion of him and people of all generations have sympathy for what he went through with the whole being presumed dead thing but the older generation - ''

''Thinks he's a buffoon,'' Laurel finishes, the corners of her lips ticking up into a smirk.

''The buffooniest.''

''Did you seriously have your staff doing cold calls about Oliver's popularity?'' Laurel raises her eyebrows. ''You know he's not the president, right?''

''I take my job seriously,'' Thea says with a cheeky grin. ''Plus, what's best for Green Arrow and associates is to keep him in office for as long as possible so he needs to improve his likability by the next election year.''

Laurel makes a small thoughtful noise but doesn't say a word. She looks contemplative, staring down into her tea with a frown. ''You want my advice?'' She asks after an extended silence.

Thea perks up. ''Yes please.''

''The people of this city didn't vote him in. They got stuck with him,'' Laurel says, which is blunt but not technically incorrect. ''He was the only one left standing. There was a lengthy campaign full of debates, rallies, buttons, posters, promises, a seemingly endless amount of speeches, and then in the end, the people didn't even get a say. If he wants them on his side, what he needs to do is give them one.''

''That's good advice. Hey,'' Thea latches onto Laurel's arm excitedly. ''You wanna run for Mayor?''

Laurel snorts. ''Not in this lifetime.'' Her smile softens. Her shaking has dulled down to a barely noticeable vibrating now. ''Thank you.''

''For what?''

''Distracting me.''

Thea makes a big show of digging her phone out of her pocket and keeping her eyes on the screen. ''I don't know what you're talking about. I just needed to vent.'' She holds out her phone.

Laurel trades her tea for the phone, squinting down at the screen. ''What am I looking at?''

''The innermost musings of Oliver Queen.''

A disbelieving grins starts on Laurel's lips as she scrolls through the feed. ''There's no good way to get kicked in the face.''

''As you can see,'' Thea says, ''he's very deep.''

''Successfully embarrassed my sister in front of 450 people this afternoon. Still got it.''

Thea nods, taking another sip of the gross tea. It's not as bad when it's lukewarm. Still not great. ''That's every day for me.''

''John Diggle might be a wizard.'' Laurel frowns at that one, looking up with a questioning arch of an eyebrow.

All Thea can do is shrug helplessly. ''Don't ask me. I don't know what those two get up to when they're alone.''

''I always assumed it was salmon ladder races and a lot of arm wrestling.''

''Probably a fair assumption.''

''Grabbing a workout at lunch,'' Laurel reads. ''Solo in the gym so I took my shoes off and fashioned my shit into a crop top because I'm the boss of me.'' She shakes her head and rolls her eyes but she's laughing fondly as she does it. ''Now there's the Ollie I know.''

''You haven't even gotten to the most Oliver tweet ever,'' Thea laughs.

''Which one is that?''

''Keep scrolling. You'll know it when you see it.'' Laurel keeps her eyes on the small, illuminated screen, thumb scrolling through the tweets. When she stops abruptly and there's a brief second of silence before she dissolves into laughter, Thea knows she's found it. ''99% of the time I offend someone it is completely by accident and I am totally unaware they're upset.'' She barely gets through reading the tweet out loud before she's giggling again. ''That's it,'' she wheezes. ''That's Oliver in a nutshell. You should print that one out and frame it.''

''Oh, I make fun of him for that one all the time. He tweeted that one in the middle of the night and when I was browsing twitter the next morning, I spilled coffee all over my white blouse.''

''I hope you sent him the dry cleaning bill.''

''It seemed only fair.'' She watches Laurel search through Oliver's twitter, chuckling quietly. She doesn't look as desperate to find her secret stash of wine as she did before. Thea is going to mark that down as a tentative triumph. She still thinks Laurel should talk to someone who can help her properly but it's still a victory. ''I haven't even told you about the bike lanes,'' she says suddenly. ''I'm all for saving the environment and going green but the plan that was submitted was poorly thought out. Oliver greenlit the project anyway during the third week of his term and now the downtown core is even more congested than it was before and we're getting daily complaints from frustrated motorists.'' She laughs a little at the absurdity of her life but gets no response. She looks back at Laurel and sees her looking down at the phone in her hands with a more melancholic smile on her face. All the laughter has dried up. Thea pinches her lips together worriedly and leans in to see what Laurel is looking at.

Oh. Right. Those tweets. She remembers those tweets.

 _Got a paper cut today,_ the first of four tweets reads. _My friend's daughter refused to leave my office until she put a band aid on it._

 _Then she told me ''don't be sad, it won't hurt forever.'' She is her mother's daughter._

 _She also advised me to listen to the Spice Girls so she's definitely her mother's daughter. Laurel would be proud._

The thread ends with one last tweet. It's a picture of Oliver's whimsically bandaged finger with the caption: _Queen Elsa will be joining me for my afternoon meetings. I hope everyone treats her with the respect she deserves._

Thea remembers that day. It wasn't that long ago, the beginning of October if she remembers correctly. Mary's preschool was unexpectedly closed for the day and Dean hadn't been able to get away from work so Thea had brought her into the office and set her up in the corner with a snack, a juice box, and a coloring book, although she was far more interested in helping to ''file'' things. She was her shadow that day. Thea walked into Oliver's office and he got halfway through his story about his meeting with someone from something important sounding before he even noticed Mary standing there quietly, holding her coloring book in a mirror image of the way Thea was holding a stack of files. Startled him so much to see a tiny Laurel standing in his office that he wound up giving himself a paper cut. Even as shy as she is and as much as she distrusts him, Mary had not been able to resist being the world's smallest mother hen when she saw that he was hurt. She does that.

''He's not wrong,'' Thea pipes up. ''She is her mother's daughter.''

Laurel looks up from the phone, offering Thea a somewhat stilted smile. ''I like twitter Ollie,'' is all she says, handing the phone over.

''Now I just have to work on getting him to lighten up in real life,'' Thea jokes.

''If anyone can, it's you.''

She's not entirely convinced of that, but it's a nice thought. She looks at Laurel, calmly sipping at her tea. She looks at Dean's beast of a car. The old thing almost looks like it's looking at them. There's a question burning in her throat. It seems like a rude question to ask and it's not the best time to ask it but it slips out before she can squash it down. ''Was it painful?''

Surprisingly, Laurel doesn't even flinch. ''What? Getting angelically fisted?''

The response shocks a hearty laugh out of her. ''Wow, do I ever wish you had phrased that differently.''

''Sorry,'' Laurel says, but she's snickering. ''It...'' She bites her lip, sobering slightly. ''It hurt,'' she admits. ''Worse than the arrow. Not as bad as childbirth.''

Thea's not sure what part of that answer is the most disturbing. ''That sucks.''

''It does suck.''

''Are you feeling better now?''

''I'm...'' Laurel pauses. She fixes a smile on her face. It only bothers Thea a little that she can't tell if it's real or fake. ''I'm getting there.''

''I'm glad.''

''I think I'm going to stay out here for a few minutes,'' she adds. ''You don't have to stick around if you don't - ''

''No, no, I'm okay. I'm good here.''

Laurel looks unconvinced. ''Are you sure?''

''Why wouldn't I be?''

''I don't know.'' Laurel shrugs. ''Just - You know. You've been distant since I got back.''

''I...'' Thea squashes down a wince of guilt. She hasn't exactly been subtle about her avoidance but she'd hoped Laurel was too busy to notice. She thought Mary or having Sara around would take the edge off. She should have known it wouldn't. It's Laurel. Of course she noticed. ''I know. I'm sorry about that.''

''You don't have to be sorry.''

''No, I do. I've been avoiding you. I don't mean to be - I don't want to make you think I'm unhappy you're back.''

''I don't think that,'' Laurel assures her, patient as ever.

''I am glad you're back,'' says Thea, and she is. It's hard to explain everything she's feeling when she doesn't even understand it herself but the one thing she knows for sure is that she's grateful. The return may be shrouded in mystery and worry but Thea is happy to have Laurel here with them. With her. It's not a perfect miracle, it's not a miracle at all, but she would rather have her here. Mystery or not. ''It's just that this is... This is...'' She doesn't have an end to this sentence. She doesn't know what this is at all.

''Yeah.'' Laurel's lips pull back into a smile. She holds her mug of tea in one hand and rakes her other through her thick, slightly tousled hair, sweeping it off to one side. She's blonde again. Her hair was darker a week ago, when she came back, streaked with brunette. It wasn't just the hair either. When Laurel went into the ground, she had a face full of makeup and a head of blonde hair. The makeup was slathered on thick, caked on until Laurel looked more like a wax figurine. Even her nails were done in a perfect French manicure. This, Thea remembers, was especially strange because Laurel hadn't done her nails like that since 2005.

Dinah had been the one to specify how Laurel should look. Thea picked out the dress and the shoes. She brought the clothes to the funeral home and had the world's most irrational and embarrassing breakdown about whether or not she should have brought nicer underwear for Laurel to wear with her blue dress. She cried so hard that the funeral director had to sit her down with a glass of water and call Oliver to come drive her home. But Dinah had gone full stage mom with the makeup. It had seemed like such an unnecessary waste at the time. It wasn't an open casket funeral. There hadn't been a formal viewing. Just a few quiet moments for close family before the casket was transported to the cemetery for the graveside service. The only people who saw what she looked like in that casket were her parents, her husband, and Thea.

Thea remembers thinking it was tacky and shallow for Dinah to focus so much on appearances. But it wasn't about that. It wasn't about making Laurel look like a Barbie doll. It was about making her look alive. Dinah had just wanted to look at her daughter one last time and see her daughter. It hadn't worked. All the makeup in the world can't make a corpse look like anything but a corpse.

When Laurel came back, however, none of that had been present. The manicure had been broken and ripped away, the roots of her hair were dark, and there was no makeup left on her face. Only fresh flowing blood; an irrefutable sign that she was alive again. Her wounds are healing now and she dyed her hair blonde again the other day - with some help from Sara - in an effort to feel more like herself but she hasn't worn anything but moisturizer on her face since.

It's a bizarre thing to notice and, in fact, Thea hadn't really noticed until now, but there's something comforting about it. She doesn't look like a wax figurine anymore. She doesn't look the way she did in the morgue or the casket or the nightmare. She looks tired, maybe not as glowing as she did back in April, and slightly pale from lack of sunlight, but she looks real. She looks alive. Whatever else is happening, she's alive.

That part hasn't quite sunk in for Thea yet.

''It's okay to be cautious,'' Laurel says, breaking the silence. ''I want you to know that. It's okay to be conflicted. There's no right way to feel about this.''

Thea clasps her nervous hands together with a barely noticeable smile. That's certainly a Laurel thing to say. ''When you were gone,'' she starts, but doesn't know how to finish. She's not sure how to properly sum up the misery of being here without her. She can't even begin. ''It got really bad when you were gone,'' is all she manages to choke out.

''I'm sorry,'' Laurel whispers. ''I'm sorry you were in pain. I never wanted that for you.''

''It's not your fault,'' Thea says firmly. ''You were the victim, not the perpetrator.''

Laurel looks down into her tea. She looks like she wants to say something but she's not sure how to say it. ''Dean says you were amazing with Mary,'' she settles on.

Thea chuckles, rueful. ''I didn't do much. It was nothing.''

''It wasn't nothing,'' Laurel insists. ''You're twenty-one years old. You should be out living your life. You shouldn't have to give up all your free time to help raise a child who isn't yours but that's exactly what you did.'' She reaches out to take Thea's hand. ''What you did for Mary and for Dean was incredible,'' she says earnestly. ''I wanted to thank you for that. For taking care of them when I couldn't. I'm so proud of you, Thea. You have no idea.''

Thea tries to swallow down the rock in her throat, blinking furiously. ''It was the least I could do,'' she says with a shaky smile. ''But it's - it's all okay now. You're back. You're home.''

''That doesn't fix everything.''

...No. It certainly doesn't. ''Doesn't it?''

''No.'' The strange little smile on Laurel's lips is lined with sadness. ''We may want it to, but it doesn't. It can't. Me being here - It doesn't mean the pain didn't happen. It happened. You were hurt. You hurt. It was a part of you. You made room for it. It was a big part of your life. I think it probably still is. There's just no box to put it in anymore.''

Uncomfortable with the direction this question is going in, Thea rises to her feet and moves away from Laurel, over to the hood of the car. She thinks of everything she's done over the past few years to keep from breaking down. The cemetery visits. Taking care of the graves of loved ones, bringing them flowers and stories, fussing over them like they were really there. Laurel is right about those boxes. Thea has a lot of them. She's done everything in her power to keep them neat and tidy, meticulously organized in the back of her mind, labeled clearly so she knows to avoid them - _this is my grief for my parents, this is my grief for Tommy, this is my grief for Laurel_ \- and that's where she puts her sadness on the days she wakes up and all she can feel is the ache of loss.

One would think she would be better at handling miraculous returns given what happened to Oliver but that's exactly the problem. She spun out of control when he came home. She got so lost, torn in two, split down the middle by the confusing, torturous mix of grief and elation. The only reason she made it out was because of Laurel. Technically, it was Laurel and Ollie who pulled her out of that spin, but Laurel was her much needed steady hand. She got her the job at CNRI. She let her back into her life and she put her on the path here. She can't be her steady hand this time. Thea is going to have to pull herself out of this spin. She just doesn't know how she's going to do that yet.

Loss is an insidious kind of cruelty. It doesn't just happen the exact moment it happens. It creeps into your life and takes a wrecking ball to past, present, and future. It poisons you. It poisons your memories.

Back when Oliver first came home, there was one night. One night where the remains of the Queen family pretended to be like everyone else. It was just Oliver, Thea, and their mother, watching Netflix in between dramas and disasters. She remembers every second of that night, from the pizza they ordered to the movie they watched to her mother's smile and Oliver's laugh. She keeps that memory close to her heart. Only now when she thinks of that night, there's a shadow in the corner of the room, and it's telling her that Mom will be dead in a year.

That same thing can be said about her memories of Dad, of Tommy, even of Oliver and now, of Laurel.

In the summer of 2012, she ran into Laurel and Dean outside of a restaurant downtown. Laurel was very pregnant and very tired but she looked genuinely happy. It was the first time ever that Thea met Dean. Laurel had introduced them with a bit of hesitance, waiting for Thea's approval, and Thea hadn't wanted to give it because she was stubborn and sad and maybe a little resentful of the fact that Laurel had moved on, but it was impossible to see the look in her eyes and act like a selfish brat. So when Dean offered her his hand, Thea took it, and when he smiled at her, she smiled back. Laurel looked relieved, happy, healthy, and safe in the life she was living with her husband and their unborn baby.

In four years time, she was going to die.

On April 1st, 2016, Mary learned all about April Fools' Day and wanted to prank her parents so Thea got her one of those plastic cups of pop up worms. Couldn't have been more obvious what it was but both of her parents still dutifully offered her theatrical responses to the gag. Laurel jumped and yelped in mock surprise when Mary handed it to her, sending the little girl into fits of giggles. ''You got me, honeybee,'' she'd said, tilting Mary's chin up and leaning down to kiss her cheek. She was happy that day. She was smiling and laughing and relaxed and about to die in less than a week.

On January 21st, 2006, Ollie snuck Thea out of school early for her birthday and took her out for pizza and ice cream. Afterwards, they went to the pier and met up with Laurel. She had just gotten off work so she brought them some hot chocolate from the bakery she was working at. She greeted Thea with a kiss on the cheek, tilting her chin up the way she would one day do with her own daughter. ''Happy birthday, Speedy,'' she murmured. Her breath was warm against Thea's cheek in the winter air and her hair was whipping around in the cold wind. She smelled like sugar cookies and chocolate and something sweet and fruity. She had added a cinnamon stick and fresh whipped cream to Thea's hot chocolate.

In ten years and about two and a half months, she would be dead.

Gone. Just like that. Stolen away in one brutal minute just like all the others. Every single memory of Laurel is tainted with the knowledge of her death. She wants Laurel's return to fix that. She wants to look back on that day in the morgue and have the dark memory lit up by the knowledge that in seven months Laurel will be home again. She wants to remember the time she pulled that sheet back and have her horror and her grief cured. She wants the hurt to mean less than it does. But it doesn't work that way. Laurel's right. The pain happened. She lived it. The grief is still there, even if the loss isn't.

Thea turns around to face Laurel and offers her an unsteady grimace masquerading as a smile. ''Speaking from personal experience?''

Laurel puts the mug down on the steps, but doesn't stand up. ''When I brought Sara back, I thought everything would magically get better,'' she says. ''It didn't. Nothing takes that night away. I watched her hit the pavement. I held her in my arms. I carried her body. I watched Dean and Oliver dig her grave and put her in the ground. I grieved her for a year. Her life can't take away the pain of her death. The loss is still there. It's just more complicated now. I'm guessing you understand what I'm talking about.''

Thea is not sure how to look at Laurel without bursting into tears. How to open her mouth and speak without crumpling into sobs. She has spent the past seven months walking a tightrope. Trying to keep control. To keep her tears to herself. She cried in her bedroom with the door locked, in her car, in the bathroom at work, at the graveyard, but never in front of people. Not since the funeral. She kept that to herself.

Someone had to keep their head above water. Someone had to take care of things. Someone had to care for the dead and look after Mary and Dean and make sure Oliver didn't give up. Someone had to be brave. Someone had to be Laurel. Ten minutes with the actual Laurel and suddenly Thea's weak in the knees with seven months of pain weighing her down like a boulder on her back.

''I tried really, really hard,'' she gets out. ''Everyone else - They all just unraveled without you. I tried not to do that. I tried to be strong. I tried to be you.''

''Thea, you don't have to be me to be strong. You've always been strong.''

Thea slumps back against the Impala with a small laugh, feeling suddenly and inexplicably exhausted. ''Maybe,'' she says, ''but we needed you, Laurel. We all needed you. So I tried.'' She bites down on her bottom lip, still trying to keep the tears from spilling over. ''Turns out nobody can be you but you.''

Laurel looks torn between flattered and worried, offering up a shaky smile.

Thea picks at her cuticles again, pushing at the skin with her nails until they're red and raw. She can barely feel it. She so badly does not want to break down in front of Laurel. It's the last thing she needs right now but it's so exhausting to have to keep swallowing it down. ''I missed you,'' she finally says, because she's just too damn tired to keep it in anymore. ''I missed you every day.'' She still misses her and she's right there in front of her. She's not sure how to stop.

She can't look at Laurel right now. She can't look at her wide eyes or her lips pinched in concern. She looks down at her fingers. She's accidentally picked too much at her left thumb. There's blood blooming from the wound now, bubbling up and smearing on her nail. She's going to need to swipe one of Mary's beloved Doc McStuffins band aids.

''Did you know that there's no sleep in the afterlife?''

Thea snaps her head up, staring at Laurel incredulously. ''What?''

''There's no sleep in the afterlife,'' Laurel says again, unnervingly casual. ''I guess it makes sense. Sleep is kind of an alive human concept so it's not needed when you're not alive, but it was hard to get used to at first. There are days and nights there - or at least there was in my afterlife - but I never needed to sleep. I'd use the nights to wander around my memories.''

''You could do that?''

She nods. ''Every night I'd open the door and step into a memory. I'd live the good parts all over again.''

Thea has no idea where she's going with this. ''That... That sounds nice.''

''You were a fixture in them,'' Laurel says, tilting her head to the side. She says it like it's not a big deal. She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Thea pushes off the car, wiping the blood on her black jeans. ''I was?''

''Mmmhmm.'' Laurel is still smiling. ''Do you remember the day you first met Mary? When you came over to drop off the gifts your mom sent?''

''Um, I remember accidentally decapitating a teddy bear,'' Thea says. That part is definitely hard to forget. But she remembers everything else about that day too. It was the first time she had felt like part of a normal, functional family in years and the family hadn't even been hers.

''That was one of the first memories I revisited,'' Laurel tells her. ''You're in some of my best memories. She steps over to her, bringing both hands up to cup Thea's cheeks gently. ''You, Speedy,'' she says softly, ''are the best thing I got out of my relationship with your brother. You were my favourite part of those years. I loved watching you grow up. It was amazing to watch you become the brilliant, determined, kick ass, brave woman you are today and I can't wait to see what you do next.'' She moves her hands down to Thea's shoulders, squeezing gently. ''I don't know how we do this,'' she confesses quietly, smile slipping. ''I don't know how we go through these things. How we heal. But... Day by day,'' she says that part strongly, with conviction. ''We're going to take it day by day. All of us. Then, one day, before you know it, we'll be through. We'll be on the other side of this and we'll be together. How does that sound?''

Thea can't help the laugh that escapes. It's quiet and choked sounding, strangled by the sob in her throat, but it's genuine and it's awed. ''Sounds like something Laurel would say.''

Laurel doesn't look like she was expecting that answer. ''I am Laurel.''

Thea lets out another gulping noise that could either be a laugh or a cry. It doesn't matter which. ''You are,'' she says. ''Aren't you?''

Laurel still looks confused - and a little worried - by Thea's strong emotional reaction but she wraps her up in a hug anyway. It's the first time she's hugged her since she's been back. Not counting the awkward mostly one sided hug Thea forced on her the night she showed up on the doorstep when everything was blurry and happening so fast. It's been such a long time. Thea has not forgotten what it feels like to be hugged by Laurel. It's just as comforting as she remembers. Her eyes widen momentarily and then the tears just spill over and they keep coming. She hugs Laurel back, tentatively at first and then she just melts. She closes her eyes and buries her face in Laurel's hair, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender shampoo. A hug is not a cure all but damn if it doesn't feel good.

''I love you,'' Laurel whispers into her ear. ''Do you know that?''

Thea sniffles, choking on a laugh. ''Is it because I'm awesome? 'Cause I've been told I'm incredibly awesome.''

''You are incredibly awesome,'' Laurel agrees with a chuckle.

''I love you too,'' Thea says, pulling away from the embrace reluctantly. ''Don't go dying on me again, okay?''

Laurel brushes a tear off Thea's cheek with her thumb. ''I promise.''

.

.

.

 **November, 2012**

 _There are a lot of things that, no matter what, will never change. One of these things is that Moira Queen famously has a habit of overdoing it when it comes to the act of gift giving. This is an undeniable truth that Thea has known since she was little. One time, a second cousin twice removed graduated from Julliard and Mom bought her a car. She had never met this cousin. Dad had been so flabbergasted that he had to sit down. He just kept muttering to himself, ''A car. A car?''_

 _So it's really no surprise when Thea walks into the sitting room one morning and finds Oliver standing in the middle of what can only be described as baby boutique hell. ''Oh,'' she yawns, looking up at him. ''So you told Mom that Laurel had her baby, huh?''_

 _Oliver, who had been standing there blinking and gaping uselessly, deflates and facepalms. ''Mom,'' he groans. ''Oh my god, no.'' It's the most Ollie he's sounded since he's been back._

 _His bodyguard, Mr. Diggle, standing quietly over by the door, looks visibly amused by his charge's consternation._

 _Thea has no chance to dwell on this for long, however, because that's the moment her mother chooses to pop up. Literally she pops up like a whack-a-mole from behind a very expensive looking crib. Thea startles, yelping in shock and staggering back into her brother's chest, clapping both hands over her mouth._

 _Mom outright ignores this. ''What do you mean no?'' She demands, narrowing her eyes at Oliver. ''We have to send a gift.''_

 _''She's my ex girlfriend.''_

 _''Hmm, yes.'' Mom props both hands up on her hips and sends him one of those cold, disapproving looks of hers. ''And whose fault is that?''_

 _''Whoa,'' Thea murmurs under her breath. ''Savage.'' She has to wipe the smirk off her lips when she sees the glower Oliver's sending her. ''Sorry.'' She's not really sorry. She bounces past the both of them, ignoring their weird standoff in favor of flopping down into the arms of a giant teddy bear sitting on the ground. It is extremely comfortable. Also, there is a plethora of gift baskets on the table in front of them and one of them appears to have chocolate covered pretzels in them so she knows what she's having for breakfast this morning._

 _''She's a family friend, Oliver,'' Mom's saying. She sounds super exasperated by what she must perceive to be her oldest's insufferable rudeness. ''This is just what's done. It would be rude not to send a gift.''_

 _Ah, yes. Societal norms. She is, on occasion, very concerned with those. Other times not so much. Like when she married her dead husband's best friend. Society sure didn't expect her to do that. It's like sometimes she's Emily Gilmore and then sometimes she's Game of Thrones meets Real Housewives._

 _''Besides,'' Mom tacks on, picking up some weird looking contraption to inspect it with a judgmental frown. It takes Thea an embarrassingly long moment to realize it's a breast pump. ''We owe her,'' she reminds him, oblivious to the way he's eyeing the machine in her hands with juvenile discomfort. ''She got you off.''_

 _There is a length pause in which Thea and Oliver both scrunch their noses up in a mixture of horror, disgust, and confusion. Thea freezes with a pretzel halfway to her mouth, Oliver looks like he's having an aneurysm, and even Mr. Diggle is silently side eyeing that one._

 _To her credit, she does realize her mistake quick. ''Of the charges,'' she hurries to explain. ''When her father arrested you. Because she was your lawyer.'' Then she sighs in disappointment. ''Really, you two. How did you turn out to be so filthy?''_

 _''I watched you fold a napkin into a dick out of boredom during the company's Christmas party one year,'' Thea mumbles, ''but sure, okay, we're the filthy ones.''_

 _''Fine,'' Oliver cuts in before Mom has a chance to respond to that. ''You can send her a gift - ''_

 _''I don't recall asking for your permission.''_

 _'' - But do you have to send all of this? This is an insane amount of stuff.''_

 _''Babies need a lot of things.''_

 _''Do babies really need one of those?'' He asks, raising his eyebrows and pointing a finger at the bear Thea's currently lounging against._

 _''Admittedly,'' Mom says, ''that might have been an impulse purchase. I thought it was whimsical.''_

 _''I love it,'' Thea declares firmly, looking up from browsing Instagram. ''I've already named him.'' Mom and Oliver both look at her, identical look of 'wtf' written on their faces. ''Mr. Fluffington,'' she announces. They're both still staring at her. She takes another pretzel out of the bag and pops it into her mouth. ''He's British.''_

 _For some reason, this seems to stun them into silence because neither Mom nor Oliver says a word for a long time. They just kind of stare at her. Ollie is the one to eventually break the silence. ''Do you realize that you've named every stuffed animal you've ever had Mr. Fluffington?''_

 _''Um, false?'' She frowns in offense. ''There have been several Mrs. Fluffingtons. Even a handful of Miss. Fluffingtons because the decision not to get married is just as valid as the decision to get married and honestly, fuck societal pressure. Maybe you just don't remember the women, which is,'' she points an accusing finger at him, ''misogyny.''_

 _''I... I didn't - What?'' Oliver just stands there, blinking and shaking his head, mouth open and closing like a fish._

 _In the doorway, Mr. Diggle clears his throat quietly and drops his eyes to the ground to cover up the fact that he's clearly trying not to laugh._

 _Oliver looks over at their mother like he's waiting for her to help him out. Instead, she holds up a box and declares proudly, ''This mobile plays Cyndi Lauper.''_

 _He shuts his eyes and sighs deeply. ''Where's Walter?''_

 _''Working.''_

 _''Does he know how much you've spent?''_

 _Thea shakes her head. ''Wow.''_

 _Very calmly, with a very straight spine, Mom clasps her hands, tilts her head to the side, and looks at Oliver with a look that could fucking ice him on the spot. Thea swears the room actually gets colder. ''You're suggesting my husband should have the final say over what I do?''_

 _''No!'' Oliver shakes his head rapidly, taking a step back. ''No, no, no, that's not what I mean. I don't - That's - I just...'' Poor guy looks like he's about to revert back in a five year old, start crying in apology, and wrap his arms around her waist begging her not to be mad at him for throwing a tantrum. ''Please, Mom, please,'' he tries. ''Just narrow it down a little bit.''_

 _''But - ''_

 _''He does have a point,'' Thea jumps in, finally deciding to throw him a bone. Part of her would love to watch this play out a little longer but poor Ollie is getting more and more flustered with every minute that goes by and she doesn't actually want to torture him. He obviously still has feelings for Laurel. Thea knows that because she has, you know, eyes and stuff. She knows that talking about Laurel's baby is like rubbing salt in the wound for him. ''I'm sure Laurel has most of this stuff,'' she says. ''Like, do you really think she doesn't have a breast pump? Or a crib?''_

 _That does seem to get through to their mother. She looks around the room. ''I suppose I could return some of these things.''_

 _Oliver slumps in relief. ''Thank you.''_

 _''But,'' she says firmly, leaving zero room for discussion. ''I'm sending her the mobile that plays Cyndi Lauper.''_

 _Eventually, after hours of deliberation, it's decided that the Queen family will be sending a generous package to Laurel and her baby consisting of a baby carrier, the mobile that plays a lullaby version of Time After Time, some baby clothes, and a gift basket full of fancy cheeses, nuts, chocolate, and champagne. The gift basket is for Laurel, Mom says. But just Laurel apparently. Because Mom never once mentions Dean. It's always just Laurel and the baby. She doesn't seem to want to acknowledge that there's a husband in the picture. Probably because he gets in the way of her fantasy of Laurel taking Oliver back, giving her grandkids, and being the daughter-in-law of her dreams._

 _Mom might be more in love with Laurel than Ollie, to be honest. And Ollie's pretty pathetic about it, so that's saying something._

 _Mr. Fluffington will also be heading to Laurel's place. Because the store wouldn't take him back. Apparently it's store policy that they can't take back stuffed animals because they could be infected with bed bugs._

 _Thea will admit that she was a little pissed that she had to cancel her plans to help Mom return everything because Oliver ran like his ass was on fire as soon as she could but it was fucking hilarious to watch her get epically offended at the mere suggestion that she, Moira Queen, could have bed bugs. She told the poor sales clerk that she was going to call the Better Business Bureau on them._

 _Overall, it hasn't been the world's worst day but it's also been just...a lot of Mom. One on one time with Mom. Like, a lot of it. So when Thea hears that her mother is just going to send the gifts over by courier, she jumps at the chance to take it herself. She loves her mother, of course, but they're not exactly the family that spends tons of quality time together. She used to wish they were, sometimes she still does, but there's so much awkwardness between them._

 _She needs some breathing room._

 _In addition to that, it is definitely an excuse to steal the bottle of champagne from the gift basket. Hey, listen, she may not know Dean that well but she's heard through the grapevine (the grapevine being Tommy) that he's a recovering alcoholic and he's only been sober since, like, June or something. She figures it's better safe than sorry. ...Plus, champagne is her favourite._

 _And, okay, she'll admit that offering to drop off the gifts is not just about getting away from her mother. The plan is to drop off the gifts, then Tiffany is going to pick her up outside of Laurel's place, they're going to meet up with some people at this new club that's opening downtown, then after, she'll head back to Laurel's building, call the driver to come pick her up from there, and she'll say that she was there the entire time. This level of subterfuge is not normally necessary but Oliver has been a real killjoy since he got back and now Mom's hopping on that same train and Walter's not helping and ugh. Just ugh._

 _Fucking stupid, is what it is. It's like they think they can take back the last five years. Well, they can't. Dad's still dead, half the time Ollie acts like he'd rather be back on that damn island, and Mom..._

 _The problem with this plan is that she seriously underestimated the heft of all this crap. It's impossible to carry everything at once. She gets her driver to help her load everything onto the elevator in the lobby but she makes a big mistake when she sends him away. Somehow, when the elevator stops on Laurel's floor, she does manage to get almost everything out before the door shuts. Almost._

 _She gets the boxes with the mobile and the carrier out and into the hall, she gets the gift bag filled with baby clothes and the gift basket out, but just as she's grabbed the bear by the leg and stepped out of the elevator, there's a problem._

 _Mr. Fluffington has turned out to be a real asshole. He's such a nuisance to lug around. And now he's gone and gotten his head stuck between the elevator doors. Should've just left the fool in her bedroom with the champagne._

 _''Oh my god,'' her eyes widen and she lets go of the bear, frantically pushing the button to get the doors to open. They do not. She is left watching in muted horror as the bear's body begins to move as the elevator travels back down to the lobby. ''Oh my god,'' she yelps out again and throws herself at the door, grasping onto the leg._

 _This is not a situation she - or anyone - is prepared for so she just kind of reacts. By pulling as hard as she can. Which, to be fair, does work. Mr. Fluffington does come free. He just comes free with a truly horrific ripping noise and she falls back hard, tripping over the gift bag and tumbling back against the wall with a shriek._

 _On the ground, she looks at the now headless bear in her hands. ''Mr. Fluffington,'' she whispers. ''Oh, buddy.'' She glances around her. ''This is not going like I pictured.'' She leans back against the wall and stares up at the ceiling. All right, well. She can't give Laurel's baby a headless teddy bear. They'll think it's some kind of weird personal attack like that scene from The Godfather. She pulls the gift bag out from under her feet. It's torn from where she tripped over it and the fancy bow has fallen off, but the clothes inside are fine. Same goes for the boxes. The gift basket has toppled over. Thankfully, the cellophane has kept everything from falling onto the carpet but everything has slid out of place. She groans. ''Aw, cheeses.''_

 _The worst part is the stuffing everywhere. It looks like a teddy bear crime scene. Thea pushes a few strands of hair out of her eyes. ''Yep, this could have gone better.'' Ew, and she's still on this gross carpet. She doesn't want to sound like a rich bitch but this is a thousand dollar coat and this carpet is unnervingly sticky. ''Fuck my life.'' Quickly, she shoves some of the stuffing back into the bear and is just about to heave herself to her feet when the elevator dings, the doors slide open, and -_

 _''Thea?''_

 _She lifts her head, suddenly feeling unusually sheepish. This is not what she would call her best look. Regardless, she goes for aloof. ''Oh, hey, Tommy, what's up?''_

 _Tommy picks his jaw up off the ground just so he can grin at her, eyes lighting up. She can literally see the gears turning in his head as he tries to come up with the best joke. ''You look like you've had a significantly worse day than I have.'' He looks over at his companion like he's waiting for him to join in on the teasing but Dean remains silent. ''Did you kill that bear just to watch him die? I know you hated the Paddington books when you were a kid but this seems like a bit of an extreme reaction, Speedy.'' Still nothing out of Dean. ''Seriously?'' Tommy shifts the brown paper bag full of groceries into his other arm to look at him. ''You've got nothing?''_

 _''I'm thinking,'' is the somewhat defensive reply. All he manages to come up with after a pause is a shake of the head, a sigh, and, ''I am so tired.'' He hands over his own grocery bag to Tommy and steps off the elevator, offering Thea his hand._

 _She takes it, barely managing to swallow a surprised ''eep'' noise when he just hauls her right to her feet. She grabs the torn gift bag from the ground, plasters on a smile, and says, ''I come bearing gifts!''_

 _He looks at the decapitated teddy bear. ''I can see that.''_

 _''The bear,'' she glances behind them, spotting Mr. Fluffington's head on the floor of the elevator just before the doors close. ''He obviously didn't work out. It's not a personal attack.''_

 _''What?''_

 _''Never mind.''_

 _She frowns at the mangled corpse. ''Do you have a garbage chute?''_

 _Dean actually laughs at that. ''Why don't you help Tommy with the groceries and I'll take care of the bear.''_

 _Oh, thank god._

 _Thea gladly accepts one of the grocery bags, placing the gift bag on top. She allows Tommy to gently steer her towards the apartment door, away from the elevator and away from the late Mr. Fluffington. RIP Mr. Fluffington. 2012-2012. A short but exciting life, if she does say so herself._

 _''I have to say,'' Tommy muses, ''this is surprisingly less than what I would have expected from Moira.''_

 _''Yeah, I made her return a bunch of stuff. Oh, hey, they have a crib, right?''_

 _''No. They make her sleep on the floor.'' Then he ruins the joke by backtracking way too quickly and adding, ''I'm kidding.'' Which - no shit. ''Wait, did she seriously buy a - ''_

 _The door to Laurel's apartment swings open abruptly and Thea and Tommy are left face to face with the new mom herself. Thea blinks and tries not to physically recoil in shock. That would be immature. Laurel looks dead tired. Zombie level exhaustion. Her hair is piled on top of her head, she's wearing sweatpants and a black tank top with what Thea is hoping is baby spit up on the hem, and she's paler than normal. But that's all to be expected. She has a three week old. That's not what startles Thea._

 _Despite her obvious exhaustion, as soon as she sees Thea, Laurel beams. Gives her the same sweet and genuine smile as always. ''Thea, hi! It's good to see you.''_

 _''Um... Hi,'' Thea gets out. ''It's good to see you too?''_

 _''Probably didn't expect to see this much of you,'' Tommy mumbles._

 _Laurel frowns. ''What?''_

 _Dean, carrying both of the boxes with the gift basket stacked on top, squeezes between Thea and Tommy, does what looks like a remarkably calm double take when he sees his wife, and then says, ''Honey, your boob is all the way out.''_

 _''Oh my god!'' Laurel reels back, instantly turning away from them to fix her shirt. ''Son of a bitch.''_

 _''Don't worry about it,'' Tommy chirps. ''Happens to me all the time!'' Then he leans in closer to Thea and whispers. ''This is the third time she's done that.''_

 _She looks at him oddly. ''Dude, how often are you here?''_

 _In response to that, a blush creeps up his neck. ''I should get the milk into the fridge.'' He steals the bag of groceries from her and disappears in the direction of the kitchen._

 _Thea shakes her head and steps into the apartment, closing the door behind her._

 _''I'm so sorry,'' Laurel says, turning back to Thea. ''I was feeding the baby because I'm always feeding the baby because that's all she wants to do and I guess I just - It's been..'' A breath leaves her lips in a whoosh and she shuts her eyes briefly. She lets out a frazzled and exhausted sounding laugh, bringing a hand up to her forehead. ''I am so tired.''_

 _Thea flicks her eyes over to Dean, expecting him to be looking over at his wife in worry but he's just examining the gift basket and nodding along with what she's saying._

 _Yikes._

 _It's like a birth control PSA in here._

 _''That's okay,'' Thea says quickly. ''Boobs can be tricky.''_

 _As soon as the words come out of her mouth, she's wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Boobs can be tricky. Boobs can be tricky? What the fuck? Did that really just come out of her mouth?_

 _Both Dean and Laurel look at her with poorly concealed amusement and then Laurel grins and says, ''It's really good to see you, Speedy.'' She wraps Thea up in a warm, welcoming hug. For someone who - judging by the slightly greasy look of her hair - hasn't showered today, Laurel doesn't smell all that bad. She mostly just smells like peppermint tea and baby._

 _''Thea brought us cheese,'' Dean interjects, holding up the gift basket._

 _Laurel turns but keeps one arm around Thea's shoulders. ''Cheese?''_

 _''Among other things,'' Thea confirms. ''You know my mom. She had to send something.''_

 _''What in the hell is Roquefort?'' Dean asks, and then appears to immediately regret opening up the cheese to smell it. He rears back, face contorting in disgust and horror._

 _''It's a type of bleu cheese,'' Laurel says, completely unfazed._

 _''Ugh.'' He places the cheese back in the basket like he's handling a bomb. ''There are types of bleu cheese?''_

 _''Yes, honey.''_

 _''Well, I wouldn't know that,'' he says, sticking his nose up. ''Because I don't eat things that taste like vomit soaked dirty socks. I have standards.''_

 _Laurel stares at him, unblinking. ''You ate a Cheeto that you found in your shirt pocket for breakfast today.''_

 _''It was a flamin' hot Cheeto, Laurel,'' he says, deadly serious. ''You can't waste those.''_

 _Thea bites down hard on her lip to stifle a laugh._

 _Laurel shakes her head and sighs but when she turns back to Thea, her eyes are sparkling and she's clearly trying not to laugh. ''Thank your mom for me. She didn't have to do this.''_

 _''Oh, please,'' Tommy says as he strolls back into the room. ''It's Moira. Of course she had to. You're lucky she didn't buy you a house.'' He doesn't bother to inspect the gifts and instead makes a beeline for the bassinet in the living room like his life depends on it. He lights up as soon as he sees the baby. ''Hey there, sunshine,'' he coos, scooping up the teeny bundle. ''You're a little milk drunk, huh? You look like your mom after New Year's Eve 2011.''_

 _Thea doesn't get the joke but Dean almost chokes on the chocolate he's snatched from the basket, and Laurel goes beet red. Like, redder than she did when her entire breast was out for all the world to see. Tommy looks very proud of himself. Thea raises an eyebrow but opts not to ask. She watches as Tommy lifts the bundle up to his face and inhales deeply. Because that's such a normal thing to do. He seems unexpectedly familiar and at home here in someone else's home cuddling someone else's baby. It's strange to see Tommy Merlyn, party boy extraordinaire, so comfortably domesticated but somehow it's not as surprising as one would think. Frankly, she's had her suspicions about his ''friendship'' with Laurel and Dean for awhile now._

 _''Stop sniffing my kid, Merlyn,'' Dean pipes up, peeling the lid off a tin of mixed nuts. He looks down into the tin, shakes it around, sniffs at it, and then decides it's too boring for him, placing the lid back on._

 _''I can't help it,'' Tommy sounds unapologetic. ''I need a hit. It's been too long. I was starting to go through withdrawals.''_

 _Laurel looks up from picking through the gift basket. ''You were here this morning.''_

 _''I've had a very long, hard day,'' Tommy defends. ''Excuse me for wanting a minute or two with the member of this family who A) actually listens to my problems, and B) is the cutest.''_

 _''Well, first of all,'' Dean starts, and then pauses to stuff a handful of chocolate covered almonds into his mouth. ''I'm the cutest. Second of all,'' he goes on, completely ignoring the way Laurel plucks the box of chocolates from his hand and gets the basket of goodies away from him before he eats it all. ''I listen to your problems.''_

 _''You told me to punch my dad in the face.''_

 _''No, I said I would punch your dad in the face. I was defending your honor.''_

 _''Okay, this could go on for awhile.'' Laurel scoops the baby out of Tommy's arms. ''Come on, little bird. Let's leave these silly boys to their bickering. There's someone I want you to meet.''_

 _Oh, red alert. Red alert._

 _Thea shifts on her feet nervously. All that planning and she somehow forgot to factor in the possibility of actually meeting the baby. She doesn't dislike children, just for the record. She's not sure if she wants them for herself but she doesn't hate kids. It's just that they're so tiny and fragile. It's intimidating._

 _If Laurel notices Thea's anxiety, and it's probable that she does, she doesn't address it directly. She does, however, make sure to keep her voice soft and she doesn't immediately thrust the baby into Thea's arms. ''Thea, this is my daughter Mary. Mary, this is my friend Thea. Hopefully,'' she lifts her eyes to Thea, ''one day, she'll be your friend too.''_

 _Thea peeks at the baby in the blankets. The girl in Laurel's arms drowsy but awake, snug in her monkey onesie and wrapped in a soft lilac blanket with the world's tiniest mittens on her hands, and she is so, so tiny. Thea has seen a picture of Mary Winchester before, thanks to Tommy. He sent her one a few days after Halloween along with a text that just said: ''Mini Laurel in the house!'' The picture doesn't do her justice. Thea's always been of the opinion that all babies look the same but even she has to admit that this one is damn cute. And she really does look a lot like Laurel._

 _''Hi, Mary,'' Thea greets, voice hushed. ''Laurel, she's beautiful.''_

 _A wide grin splits across Laurel's lips. Thea can't remember ever seeing her smile so widely and proudly before. ''Thanks. We like her,'' she jokes lightly. ''I think we're going to keep her.''_

 _Dean, apparently pressing pause on his bickering match with Tommy, taps Laurel on the shoulder and whispers something in hear ear. Laurel excuses herself for a minute, stepping away from Thea. She uses the minute to check her phone and send a quick text to Tiffany, telling her that she'll be ready to go in ten. She looks up briefly when Tommy flounces back into the kitchen, saying something about dinner, and Dean calls after him with an emphatic, ''Don't set anything on fire!'' She is just slipping her phone back into her pocket as Laurel drifts back over to her._

 _''So,'' she doesn't waste any time. ''Did you want to hold her?''_

 _Thea stiffens. ''Oh, I - I don't know.''_

 _''Because now would be your chance,'' Laurel explains. ''She tends to be a snuggle bug after she eats. Plus, I know you've had your flu shots so I'm pretty comfortable with letting you hold her. Thank you for forcing Tommy to get his, by the way.''_

 _Technically, she tricked him into getting his flu shot by telling him they were going out to lunch and driving his needle phobic ass to the immunization clinic instead but ''forcing'' works too. And people wonder why he dropped out of med school._

 _''I don't remember the last time I held a baby,'' she admits._

 _Laurel, for some reason, finds that hilarious. ''Thea, the first time I ever held a baby was three weeks ago. You'll do fine.''_

 _This is the part where Thea should be making up some hasty excuse to get out of there. She doesn't do that. She's not sure why. She told Tiffany she would be ready to go in ten minutes. She really should be going. She takes her coat off instead and allows Laurel to lead her over to the couch._

 _''Here, sit down,'' she advises gently. ''You ready?'' She waits until she gets a nod of consent and then Mary is transferred into Thea's arms. ''Just support her head. There you go. You're a natural.'' She sounds like she's smiling but Thea can't bring herself to look away from the tiny baby in her arms._

 _Earlier today, before Oliver had escaped, Mom had asked if either of them had a picture of the baby. When Thea showed her the picture that Tommy sent, Mom had smiled fondly and a little sadly, looked at Oliver, and said, ''I know this must sting so I won't talk about how this should have been my granddaughter.''_

 _Thea had rolled her eyes at her mother's dramatics but hadn't given the comment much thought. She likes Dean. She doesn't know him all that well but he seems like a good match for Laurel. He's got a good sense of humor, he looks out for her, makes sure she's taking care of herself, he doesn't take her for granted, and he's given her a good life. There's no doubt he loves her. It's glaringly obvious that he thinks she hung the moon. Thea has no grudge against the dude._

 _But even she can't help but think, as she looks down at Mary, that - yeah this probably should have been her niece. Oliver and Laurel may have ended up being more ''star crossed'' and less ''written in the stars'' but for a long time, they seemed like such an inevitability. It was just a known thing that they were going to end up together. Thea had a front row seat for all of that. She had been so sure that Laurel would end up being her sister at some point. It was the way things were supposed to go. It's for the best that things didn't end up that way. She knows that now. Still, she thinks she would have liked to have been this girl's aunt._

 _''Hi there, cutie,'' she murmurs. ''How are you liking being out of the womb?'' Mary looks up at her with her big eyes. One of her little mittens has fallen off and she's opening and closing her little fist and then flexing her fingers like she's exploring the air. She seems to realize that she's not in the safety of her mom or dad's arms because she is squirming a bit more than she was when Laurel was holding her, or even Tommy, but she's not crying. She actually looks weirdly blissed out. Thea can understand Tommy's ''milk drunk'' comment. She does look like a tiny drunk. ''I hear you made a fashionably late entrance,'' she says, watching as Mary kicks her feet._

 _Laurel looks up from hauling the presents over to the couch. ''Believe me,'' she scoffs, ''there was nothing fashionable about it.''_

 _Thea laughs. She waits until Laurel settles herself on the couch before she speaks up again. ''How are you, by the way? How are you feeling? Besides exhausted.''_

 _''Close to tears at any given moment,'' is the blunt answer._

 _''Oh, so business as usual then?''_

 _Laurel rolls her eyes. ''Ha ha.'' She leans over to check on Mary and then relaxes back into the cushions, pulling the gift basket onto her lap. ''I'm doing okay,'' she says. ''Dean and Tommy are hovering.''_

 _''Glad to hear it.''_

 _''Dean's making salmon for dinner tonight, which he hates, just because he read that it was good for postpartum women.''_

 _''That's really sweet.'' Wonder if Oliver would do that. Honestly, she doubts it. This brand new post island Oliver might try but the boy who was with Laurel? Not a chance. He might've made Raisa do it and then took the credit for it but he wouldn't have done it himself. He probably wouldn't have even bothered to look up postpartum meals. Thea looks at Laurel, and then back down at Mary. Admittedly, they might have dodged a bullet there._

 _''Is there anything in here that goes with jam?'' Laurel's low mumble jerks Thea from her thoughts._

 _''What?''_

 _''Hmm?'' Laurel looks up from rummaging around in the basket. ''Oh, our friend Cas is searching for a new hobby and his most recent thing is making his own jams and jellies so we have a lot of jam. Hey, does your mom still like marmalade?''_

 _Well, this conversation has taken a strange turn. ''...Yes?''_

 _''Good. I'm sending you home with some homemade stuff as a thank you for the gifts.'' She pokes around in the basket some more but ultimately sets it aside to open up the boxes. ''I think the worst part of the so called fourth trimester,'' she says, steering the conversation right back on track, ''has been the night sweats.''_

 _''The night sweats?''_

 _''Yeah, the postpartum night sweats. I wake up drenched practically every night.''_

 _Thea scrunches up her nose. Yuck. ''I'll add that to the list of reasons why I'm going to take a hard pass on the pregnancy thing.'' She looks at Mary. ''No offense.''_

 _''It's not for everyone,'' Laurel agrees. She's already opened up the first box containing the baby carrier with alarming speedy and she's poring over the instructions. ''We were going to get a Baby Bjorn, but we went with the Boba wrap instead because the Bjorn was so expensive,'' she says, as if Thea has any idea what she's talking about. ''I love the Boba but Dean hates it and he'll be the one using it the most when I go back to work so maybe he'll like this one.'' There's a pause, and then she looks over at Thea. ''You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?''_

 _''Not a clue. But I'm happy you like it.''_

 _Laurel holds up the box with the mobile on it. ''Does this really play Cyndi Lauper?''_

 _''Uh-huh. A lullaby version of Time After Time.''_

 _''That's awesome,'' Laurel laughs. ''Seriously, I'm sending you home with so much marmalade for your mom.''_

 _''I'm sure she'll appreciate that.'' With a great amount of care, Thea shifts Mary into one arm so she can touch the baby's cheek. Mary's skin is soft and smooth and warm. She's still not fussing, perfectly content to just chill out with a stranger. She's a bit curious, maybe, but not at all unhappy. Thea smiles softly. Holding Mary has made something inside of her ache with longing. She absolutely does not want a baby. Not even close. But she would love to have a family. A real one. One like this. Loving, loyal, happy, close. Thea hasn't had that in a long time. Maybe never. Sometimes it feels like every member of her family lives in their own world. They orbit around each other and sometimes they're in the same place at the time, but it never lasts for long._

 _She's jealous of Mary, if she's being honest. Mary's going to grow up in a tight knit family that is undivided and whole. Two hands on parents - possibly three if Thea's hunch about Tommy is correct - who adore her and a whole slew of aunts and uncles. With any luck, Mary won't know the sting of grief. She'll just know happiness. She'll know what it's like to have a real family. She's a lucky little girl._

 _''How are you?'' Laurel asks, catching Thea's eye the second she looks up. ''How are things at home?''_

 _Thea attempts to shrug it off. ''Same as always, I guess.''_

 _Laurel doesn't push the issue. She picks up the gift bag of baby clothes and examines them closely, one by one. ''Do you have plans for tonight?''_

 _''Why?''_

 _''You should stay for dinner.''_

 _Thea blinks in surprise. ''What?''_

 _''Stay for dinner,'' Laurel repeats, calmly folding a onesie. She throws out the offer so easily. ''I know you love salmon.''_

 _Thea looks at Mary. She's settled now, nestled comfortably in her arms. She's still making these adorable noises, caught somewhere between grunts and bird-like chirps. Thea smiles at her. Then she thinks of Tiffany, probably on her way here to pick her up. She thinks of how potentially awkward it would be to sit down to dinner with her brother's ex and her brother's ex's new husband. Would that be a betrayal? It seems like it would be a betrayal somehow. ''It's nice of you to offer,'' she says quietly, ''but I don't know. You guys have your own thing here. I don't want to intrude.''_

 _''Intrude?'' Laurel looks confused, like she cannot fathom why Thea would feel that way. ''Sweetheart, you wouldn't be intruding.'' When she gets no response to that, she scoots closer. ''Thea,'' she says, suddenly very serious._

 _She's using her 'divorce' voice. It's the tone of voice she used to use whenever she and Oliver would break up. Which happened frequently. It was a predictable thing. Ollie would do something stupid, he and Laurel would temporarily go down in flames, Thea would throw a fit when she found out, and then Laurel would have to come over and assure her that ''this doesn't mean we can't be friends, you and I will always be friends, Speedy.''_

 _''I know things are different than they were when I was with your brother,'' Laurel goes on. ''You and I - We've sort of...''_

 _''Drifted apart?'' Thea supplies._

 _Laurel looks guilty. She really shouldn't. Laurel moving on was never something that surprised Thea. I mean, Laurel was barely twenty-two when everything happened. Of course she would move on, fall in love again, build her own life, her own family. That doesn't mean it didn't hurt when she started slipping away._

 _In the beginning, the direct aftermath, Laurel remained a fixture. She was, although unofficially, the widow. She was a part of the family. She would regularly come to the house to check on Mom and she would try so hard to help but Mom was in a fog and Thea was in so much pain, angry and full of this broken, shattered grief that she just pushed her away._

 _There was this one night in late September where Laurel came over to pick up some of her things from Oliver's room. There was a storm, one of the worst storms on record, and Mom didn't want Laurel driving in it so she spent the night at the manor._

 _Thea remembers she didn't get much sleep that night. Thunderstorms have never been her favourite things. The wind always knocks out the power in the old manor no matter what, the thunder echoes in the cavernous halls, and the lightning casts eerie shadows on the walls. She's never minded the cool, wet weather of Star City but the storms set her on edge. There's just a different sort of feel to the air when thunder crashes through the silence and lightning splits the sky apart. It gives her nightmares. Most children would probably run to their parents to ease that kind of discomfort but not Thea. She always ran to Oliver. Her big brother has always been her shelter from the storms._

 _She ran to him that night in late September too. It was instinct. She forgot, for a moment, as she crept down the long, dark hallway, that there was no one to run to anymore. He wasn't there waiting for her that night. Laurel was. She was awake, sitting in the bed with her laptop, surrounded by open law textbooks and legal pads, using her phone for light. She was wearing Oliver's clothes and she had her earbuds in so she didn't notice when Thea poked her head in. She didn't seem bothered by the thunder or even the power outage but when the lightning flickered across her face, she looked ghostly pale in the dark and she looked sad and uncomfortable to be where she was._

 _Thea knows now that if she had tip toed into the room and said that Oliver was supposed to protect her from storms and she didn't know what to do without her, Laurel would have put off studying, scooted over in the bed, and let Thea in without a second thought because that's just what Laurel does. That's who she is._

 _That's not what Thea did that night. When she saw Laurel, when she remembered that Ollie wasn't there anymore, that he would never be there to protect her from the storms ever again, she quietly shut the door and went back to her room, all alone with the storm. She wonders, now, how that would have changed things. Maybe they wouldn't have drifted quite so far apart if she had just let Laurel in back then._

 _''I'm sorry we've made a mess of things,'' Laurel tells her. ''Or I've made a mess of things. But we can find our way back to each other, can't we?'' She smiles, looking hopeful. ''Thea, I've known you since you were six years old. I taught you how to ride a bike. You called me in the middle of the night when you got your first period. I still think of you as my family, with or without Oliver. I would love for you to be a part of my life, of my daughter's life.'' She pauses, then smiles again. It's softer this time, almost hesitant. ''I'd love to be a part of yours,'' she proposes. ''If that's something you're comfortable with.''_

 _It is hard to imagine a life without Laurel in it. She has to admit that. She doesn't say anything right away, focusing on the baby girl in her arms and the easy quiet of the warmly lit, cozy apartment that she still remembers from her days of being her brother's shadow. Mary has quieted down now, dozing in Thea's arms. Thea can hear Tommy and Dean moving around in the kitchen, pots clanging, fridge and cupboards opening and closing, a muffled laugh. This is a very different home from the one she lives in._

 _She thinks of her plans for tonight: club hopping with her fake ID and a friend who isn't really a friend. It wouldn't be just about dancing. She knows that. It is never just about dancing. Going to these clubs, for her, isn't about socializing. It's about what she can get her hands on. Tonight was going to be ecstasy. She and Tiffany debated about it at length. Tiff didn't want to do something as ''pedestrian'' as weed because it's boring and because she's paranoid about gaining weight. She whined about doing coke too because the last time she did, the comedown gave her an awful headache and made her feel ''crazy anxious.'' It was an irritating and insipid conversation but that's what Thea's life is like now. That's what a conversation with a ''friend'' looks like to her. She doesn't have many friends. Just people she gets high with._

 _It might be nice to take a night off from that life. She can drink the bottle of champagne when she gets home later if she really needs a boost. It might be nice to have, like, a real family dinner with a real family. Even if it isn't her own. ''I guess I could stay for dinner.''_

 _Laurel's eyes light up. ''Yeah?''_

 _Thea pulls her lips back into a tentative smile. ''Yeah.''_

 _It might be nice, she thinks, to have a friend._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

Sometimes, though not as often as before, Iris can't help but go back to _Blackbird._

It is hands down one of her best pieces. She worked day and night on that article, pored over research, conducted hours of interviews, spent weeks living on coffee and protein bars, poured tears and sweat and her heart and soul into that portrait of someone else's heart and soul.

She doesn't regret opting out of publishing it. The second Dean expressed discomfort about the publication it was over. That was the deal from the beginning. She doesn't begrudge him for pulling the plug. She knows a thing or two about grief. It's a horror show. One that takes over your life. Grief strips you down to your bones. It's like being thrown to the wild. All that matters is getting out alive.

She understands that Dean's life needed to be about survival above all else. She remembers the first few months after Eddie died. They were exhausting. Every day was a fight that she had to live through. She had to take every day minute by minute, breath by breath. Dean didn't need to worry about some article. Still, regardless of how much she understands, Iris will admit that it stings a little that no one outside of a few select people will ever see the article. _Blackbird_ is some of her best writing. She knows it. Her dad knows it. Barry knows it.

She has never written anything like it before - and she has written some damn good pieces. It wasn't just about memorializing someone. It was about immortalizing her. It would have cemented her as a historical figure. More importantly, it was - is - a portrait of hope. That's one thing she learned about her subject. When you scrape away the tragedy, look past the shock, the horror, and the brutal unfairness of her violent death, Laurel's story was always about hope. The hope of overcoming, of finding your strength, being your own hero, getting knocked down and getting up stronger than before.

Dean made that perfectly clear from the get go. There was one message that he wanted to send with this article, one thing he really wanted people to know about his superhero wife: It was always about hope and love for Laurel.

It's a good story.

The woman who bled so her city wouldn't have to. Black Canary fought for the ones who couldn't fight for themselves. It would have been nice to let them know that she did that out of love. It would have been nice to give them back some of the hope that died with Laurel. But it's not her story to tell. Oliver quite literally carved her name into the history books. Commissioned a giant, imposing statue of Laurel Lance, eternally guarding the citizens of her city. A boldly romantic gesture in Iris' opinion, if not terribly misguided and absolutely not his place. From what she's seen in pictures, it's not the greatest likeness but it's good that Star City has something left of her to hold onto.

The real story, however, the intimate history of the woman behind the mask, will remain safe with Dean and with Iris, tucked away in a cardboard box and a flash drive that she keeps on her at all times. The article will never be published. And yet she still keeps going back to it, adding more, deleting sentences that add nothing to the overall piece, double checking grammar and spelling. She usually only goes back to it late at night when she can't sleep.

Or when she's supposed to be having a movie night with the three most important men in her life and eating a delicious Banh mi with a side of pho and Vietnamese fried spring rolls and yet none of them have shown up yet and she is not holding a delicious Banh mi. It's not unheard of, she knows that. Things pop up. Their schedules are often different. She still reserves the right to worry.

She's been jumpy lately, okay, she'll admit that. Happens when you're chasing leads for a completely unrelated story and come across a dead body in a dumpster. The new monster of the week is a real monster, turns out. He's gotten under everyone's skin.

What they do here in Central City - well, this isn't Star City. They don't necessarily deal with things this dark and gritty. Their specialty is metahumans and the strange side of science. It can be terrifying and it can be brutal, they've lost people, been traumatized and hurt. It's not an easy life but it is not usually this. They don't typically tend to deal with human serial killers. Until this guy.

Monster is too mild of a term.

The CCPD is trying to keep it quiet because they don't want to cause panic and hysteria among the general public but this guy is bad news.

Iris sits back in her chair, pulling her legs up and grabbing her mug of tea. She drains the half empty lukewarm Earl Grey, fixes the sentence structure that's been bugging her for days now, and then grabs her phone. She fires off a quick text to Barry, asking if everything is okay, and then she pulls up the news feed for Central City. Just to make sure there's no breaking news about anything involving The Flash or any new murders. Nothing. She checks twitter too. Browses the #FlashSighting hashtag for a good five minutes. Still nothing. Apparently it's a relatively calm night tonight.

She puts her phone back on the table, finishes the last dregs of her tea, and then puts _Blackbird_ away. She's just putting the flash drive back in her purse when the lights in the house flicker and then go out altogether. There is a split second where she expects something catastrophic to happen. Of course nothing does. It's just the problematic breaker. That's the rational explanation. Iris pinches her lips together, allowing annoyance to creep in. This is what you get when you live in an old house.

Calmly, she powers down her laptop, grabs her empty mug, and heads into the kitchen to look for the flashlight. That stupid leaky faucet is dripping again. She puts the mug in the sink and turns off the faucet. The light of the moon is all she has to work with so she's mostly using touch to look for this damn flashlight. She knows it's in here somewhere. She checks the drawer with the batteries, the cupboard above the sink, and then she crouches down to check the cupboard under the sink. She moves an old burnt pot out of the way. Still no flashlight. She really wishes she had brought her phone in to use for light. And that damned dripping noise is starting to grate on her nerves.

Iris stands up straight, automatically reaching to turn off the faucet. Except the faucet isn't dripping. Because she already turned it off. Cold fear grips at her insides and a knot forms in the back of her throat. All she can think of, as she numbly draws her hands back, is the sinister parlor trick their serial killer friend uses to terrorize his victims.

The dripping noise stops, replaced by the unmistakable sound of someone cocking a shotgun. Instinctively, she whirls around, finding herself staring down the barrel of a sawed off. Her body responds before her brain even has a chance to catch up, dropping down to the ground and narrowly avoiding having her face blasted apart. She thinks she screams but she can't be sure. Her heart is beating a mile a minute, thudding against her ribcage, and all she's thinking about is getting out. She manages to get herself behind the island in the kitchen, putting at least something of a barrier between her and her attacker. There are two exit points. The back door that leads out into the backyard and the doorway leading out into the hall. If she runs into the backyard, there's wide open space and a gate she'll have to get through. If she runs out into the hall, she'd have to get all the way to the front door. Both are risks but the back door is closer. Either way, she needs to make a decision and she needs to make it fast. She can't just cower behind the island and wait for him to shoot her and leave her body lying her for Barry or Wally or her dad to find. No way will she put them through that. And no way is she going to die like this. She is not letting this psycho do that.

God, why didn't she bring her phone in here with her?

She's going for the back door. She crawls towards the door, trying not to make too much noise. He's not attacking. She knows he's there but he's not shooting wildly. He's waiting. He's calm. That's one of his signatures. He never hurries. He is always, always calm. He knows what he's doing. She can hear the sound of the gun cocking but she doesn't know if it's the actual gun cocking or just him mimicking the sound to scare her like the fucking freaky ass weirdo he is. She makes it all the way to the end of the island, nearly to the door, and then he just appears. He crouches down and pops his head around the corner.

She knows she screams this time, throwing herself back. He looks the way he usually looks; wearing that black trench coat, the black hood with the strange, concentric white circles on it. It blocks his entire face, including his eyes and mouth, from view and gives him a deeply unnerving appearance of being emotionless, expressionless. Less than human somehow. She can't visually tell if he's looking at her but she can feel his eyes boring into her.

She scrambles to get away from him, scooting back even though she knows it's useless. A gloved, large, very strong hand clamps down on her ankle and pulls hard. She scrambles desperately for something to hold onto, fingernails clawing at the floor. There's nothing to grab onto, nothing to keep her from being dragged towards him, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees the pot that she moved out of her way earlier. It's sitting on the floor in front of the open cupboard. If she can just get to it...

Iris grits her teeth. She gathers up every last bit of adrenaline and anger she possibly can, turns over onto her back, and kicks him in the groin as hard as she can. She genuinely can't tell if it hurts him because he doesn't make a noise and she can't see his face but it does make him drop her foot. She gets to her feet as quickly as she can, snatches up the pot, and then she lunges at him. She smacks him hard on the side of the head and then catches him under the chin, sending him sprawling out onto the floor, right in front of the door. His shotgun goes sliding away from him. She would try to retrieve it but he's not going to stay down for long. She needs to get out. She drops the pot and abandons her plan to go out the back door.

She races out of the kitchen, makes it down the hall and into the living room and then two arms come out of nowhere, wrap around her waist, and the next thing she knows, her back is pressed against the wall and there's a hand covering her mouth. She tries to fight, to scream, but this brand new attacker is holding her in place. When the haze of adrenaline clears just enough for her to think, she realizes he's not attacking her at all. ''Sshh, Iris, Iris, it's me.'' He moves his hand from her mouth.

Relief courses through her at the sound of the familiar voice. She relaxes, instantly reaching out to clutch at his sleeve. She's so glad to see him she doesn't even question what the hell he's doing here. ''Dean?''

He doesn't bother with greetings, especially not when he hears the distant cocking of a shotgun followed by those unhurried, eerie footsteps. He pulls her away from the wall and nudges her behind him. She feels like she should be objecting to him just immediately turning himself into a human shield because she can't let his poor daughter become an orphan but she's paralyzed right now. It's too dark for her to see much but she knows that the other guy is getting closer and for some reason, instead of getting them both to the door, Dean is backing her farther into the living room. She wants to believe he knows what he's doing because she knows he has some sort of past with vigilantism from what she can gather but she feels a bit like she's being put in a kill box here. The intruder, this intimidating, shadow like man all dressed in black, stomps into sight. Calm as ever.

''Um,'' her voice is shaky. ''Any plans here, Dean?''

All he says, voice tight, is, ''Cover your ears.''

''What? Cover my - Why would I - ''

''That's a neat little trick you've got there,'' says a voice in the darkness. It seems to startle him because he whirls around, raising his gun. ''I can guarantee you,'' the voice says, completely unafraid, ''mine's better.''

And then, all at once, there is an explosion of noise.

It's a high pitched, ear splitting, painful sound, one that Iris can feel right down in her bones. Somewhere inside the deafening screech, she can hear shattering glass, but she's too busy covering her ears, eyes shut tight, grimacing in pain. This is a sound she recognizes. She's heard Dinah make it. The voice sounded like Dinah too. Except it's not Dinah. Iris knows that immediately, even though it doesn't make any sense. She likes to think of herself as a keen observer of people. She's a reporter, it comes with the territory. Dinah's voice is deeper, raspier, not by much but enough to notice in comparison. It's likely she was a smoker at some point. Her sonic scream is different too. It flows better. This one seems less controlled somehow. It has the sound equivalent of hesitation marks in it.

There is no mistaking who just swooped in here. As soon as the noise dies down, leaving behind a somehow electric silence, Iris looks up. Even shrouded in the darkness, it's easy to pick out the identity of her savior. It's Laurel, the real one. She looks far less dead than Iris had been led to believe she was. ''Hmm, well,'' there is a smirk noticeable just in Laurel's voice, ''I'm betting he can't imitate that one, huh?''

She's so caught up in her shock that it takes her a second to realize that the intruder isn't standing anymore. It takes Dean and Laurel significantly less time to get it together and by the time Iris manages to snap herself out of it, they're gone. She chases after them into the kitchen, where they're both standing at the back door. Or at least what used to be the back door. There's just a bunch of broken glass there now. Laurel straight up blew the guy right through the door with that sonic scream of hers.

Iris hurries over the broken glass, squeezing in between them to look into the backyard. She is not at all surprised to see nothing but dewy grass and shards of glass. ''He's gone.''

''He's - No.'' Dean shakes his head. ''No way he could have just gotten up and walked away after that.'' He shakes his head again and lets out an incredibly annoyed sounding sigh. And then he takes out his gun. Because now is clearly the time for action. He tosses a look at Laurel. ''Stay with her.''

Iris arches an eyebrow, watching as he steps through the broken door instead of just opening it and walking out. She turns her attention back to Laurel. It's cold where they're standing, a chilly breeze coming through the broken door, but there's also more light. In the light, she can see Laurel's face more clearly. She tries not to stare but - How do you not stare?

Laurel doesn't even seem to notice. ''Are you okay?'' She asks, worried eyes looking over Iris for any visible injuries. ''Are you hurt?''

''I'm...'' Iris blinks at her. ''I think I broke a nail.''

Laurel still frowns in concern, grabbing Iris' hands to examine her broken nail with careful and gentle fingers.

''I'm fine,'' Iris insists, because she is. She thinks. She's shaking a bit from the adrenaline and the cold, and she might need to make an emergency appointment with her therapist, but she's uninjured. Mostly just pissed off at the state of her kitchen and slightly in awe because...because... ''Oh my god, you're alive,'' she gets out, and then wraps Laurel in a tight hug.

She and Laurel are not exactly best friends because of the distance between them and because their busy lives make it difficult to keep in touch in any meaningful way, but they're something. They met years ago, by accident, at the Star City courthouse, when Dean and Laurel were in desperate need for their wedding and Iris happened to be there with her father and was even more of a hopeless romantic than she is now. They've emailed throughout the years, met up for coffee whenever they were in close proximity, and then met again when they were both thrust into whatever their world is now. She was the only person other than Dean who was at both Laurel's wedding and her funeral. There is a reason he trusted her and only her with writing that article. She cared about her. She was her friend.

''How is this...'' She pulls away, squinting and staring at Laurel's face critically. Just to make sure it's really her and not Dinah playing some nasty trick. It shouldn't be. Dinah's...having a bad week. To put it lightly. She's not well enough to do this. Just to be sure, she takes Laurel's hands. She squeezes them softly and smiles, making it seem like a gesture of kindness instead of an investigative tactic. It's easy to tell, even through the leather jacket Laurel's wearing, that there are no bandages on her wrists. She looks up at Laurel's face, half hidden in the shadows. ''How is this possible?''

Laurel cocks her head to the side. ''Didn't Oliver call you?''

''Oliver? No. Last time he called was Halloween. He hasn't told us anything.''

Laurel heaves a sigh. ''Of course he hasn't.''

''Crazy hood guy - ''

Iris jumps and shrieks at the sound of Dean's voice, and then immediately feels her face heat up. Yeah, okay, maybe she's not as fine as she thinks.

''He's gone,'' Dean says, voice pointedly softer. He tucks his gun away. ''Are you hurt?''

''No. I'm fine. I'm okay.'' Neither of them look like they believe her at all. She'd find that frustrating but she can't really blame them right now. She blows out a breath. ''I'm not hurt,'' she says quietly. ''I promise. Just cold.''

''Oliver didn't tell them about me,'' Laurel pipes up.

''Of course he didn't,'' Dean grumbles. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over Iris' shoulders. She hadn't even noticed she was shivering.

''Listen, Iris, we'll explain everything about my...'' She trails off, pressing her lips together uncertainly.

''Homecoming,'' he supplies.

''Right,'' she nods. ''We'll tell you all about it. We'll tell all of you. But first - ''

''What's up with the faceless asshole hitman?''

Iris sighs, pulling the jacket tighter around her body. ''Our new villain,'' she says. ''He showed up in town about four days ago and it's been a mess ever since. He's been going after vigilantes. Mostly non superpowered ones. Two days ago, he murdered a woman who went by the code name Virago.'' She looks down at the ground. ''She didn't have powers. She wasn't a meta. She was just a person trying to do some good. He slit her throat for it. I was the one who found her body.''

''Is that why he came after you?'' Laurel asks, steering Iris over to the kitchen table and very gently pushing her into a chair.

''I don't know,'' Iris rubs at her forehead. ''Maybe. He might just know that I'm affiliated with The Flash. Barry's been a thorn in his side.''

''Is he a meta?''

''No. At least we don't think so. The sound imitating thing is - ''

''Fucked up?'' Dean suggests.

Iris huffs out a laugh. ''I was going to say disturbing but that works too. Anyway, we don't think it's a power. It's either a compulsive thing or it's a way to somehow further torment his victims. Like a power play. We know he likes when his victims are...'' She stops, and has to take in a breath. ''When they're scared.''

Dean and Laurel share a glance. They do that a lot. Like they're sharing information with just a look. They make a good team. Iris wonders, idly, if she and Barry do that.

''Does this guy have a name?'' Dean asks, crossing his arms.

''Not a real one,'' she admits. ''We don't even know what he looks like. He gave himself a new name, though.'' She bites down on her bottom lip. ''It was written in blood on the inside of the dumpster where I found Virago's body.''

''What's the name?''

''Onomatopoeia. He calls himself Onomatopoeia.''

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 **end part five**

* * *

 **AN: Chapter title from the song ''Landslide'' by Fleetwood Mac. All of Oliver's tweets (excluding the ones about Mary) are real and have been borrowed from Stephen Amell's twitter and tweaked ever so slightly.**


	6. No Love Without Teeth

_AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Graphic depictions of a panic attack. Mentions of suicide. Mentions of past child death._

* * *

 **How the Light Gets In**

 _Written by Becks Rylynn_

* * *

.

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 **Part Six:**

 _No Love Without Teeth_

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 **November, 2016**

''Witchcraft?''

Dean looks up from the case file Iris handed him just in time to see Joe West burst into laughter. Not an entirely unwarranted reaction to this, if he's being honest. Can't blame the guy, really.

''So you were resurrected,'' Barry says slowly from his spot next to Joe, ''by witches?'' He's still in his Flash suit with his hands on his hips, nose wrinkled, eyebrows furrowed in both confusion and curiosity. He kind of looks a little bit like a puppy dog. He reminds Dean of Sammy when he was younger. ''As in... _witches_?''

Dean swallows down the chuckle that rises in his throat and looks back down at the file in his hands, lifting up a post it note to get at the photograph beneath it. ''That's generally how it works,'' he says, off handedly.

''Witches are real?'' Wally sounds less curious and more flabbergasted. ''Like, _witches_ witches? Are we talking, like, their vulnerabilities are falling houses and buckets of water or are we talking pink taffeta? Rosenberg or Halliwell? Practical Magic or The Craft?''

''I'm not sure any of those are accurate,'' Laurel says, voice gentle.

''I don't know.'' Dean doesn't look up but he does shrug his shoulders. ''The Craft isn't what I'd call _in_ accurate.'' He turns one of the photographs over, squinting at the scribbled numbers on the back for at least a minute before he realizes it's a height and weight estimate. For an unofficial case file, this is incredibly detailed. Everything the Central City Crew has dug up about Onomatopoeia is in here. Every theory, every witness statement, details about every encounter, newspaper clippings, even crime scene photos from Virago's murder. This is impressive. Iris really is an intrepid reporter. Dean flips through the brutally gory photos of not only the body but the surrounding area, the dumpster, the word _Onomatopoeia_ written in blood, and Virago's mask, lying bloodied and forgotten on the cement.

Her real name was Michelle Summers. She was from Portland, Oregon. She had a mother, a father, two sisters, a brother, and a miniature dachshund named Stevie. Came to Central City for school. She had no powers, no backup, very little training aside from a weekly kickboxing class, and she had no business going out on the streets but she was determined to do some good and she felt empowered by people like The Flash and Black Canary. She was mugged and assaulted late last year. Virago popped up on the scene less than six months later. All she wanted to do was help the people in her neighborhood.

At least these are the things he's learned from the extensive notes Iris took when she was interviewing Michelle's friends, family, and neighbors. Her notes even theorize that Michelle's assault was most likely the thing that set her on the path to being Virago. _Helplessness often breeds power_ , says the notes written in Iris' quick, loopy writing. _Surviving an attack like the one she faced might have given her a desperate need to control her environment. The adrenaline might have even made her feel invincible._

Michelle Summers was not invincible. She was twenty-one years old. She hadn't even graduated college yet. Now she won't be going home to Portland to see her family for Christmas, poor Stevie's left waiting by the door for an owner who isn't going to come home, and the crime scene clean up team is probably still hosing her blood off the dumpster in the alley behind some pawn shop less than a block away from where she lived.

This is the price. This is the price that comes attached to vigilantism. Costumed superheroes and caped crusaders are bedtime stories. At least they're meant to be. A nice thought and all, but not part of the real world. This isn't a Marvel movie. This is real life, and in real life there are consequences that come with leather clad righteousness. This is the consequence.

When vigilantes fight their battles in the middle of Main Street and somehow manage to win every time, people start believing that the world is fair. When they only ever see the bad guys lose, they start believing that the bad guys will _always_ lose. And then things like this happen. The world is not fair. The world is cruel, harsh, violent, and people are scared. They feel helpless and unsafe, victimized and powerless in the face of an uncertain future, so when you give them an inch, they will take a mile.

That's why he preferred operating in the shadows. Sure, when he was a teenager he used to fantasize about being lauded as a hero and finally getting the praise he could never get from his father. Then he grew up. He killed monsters, he saved the world, and no one ever knew. It was better that way. People never had the chance to put on those rose-colored glasses. Things are different now. There are all these crime fighters running around on the streets and he can't blame them for wanting to help the innocent citizens of their dangerous and/or corrupt cities but man have they ever interrupted the status quo. People are so caught up in the whimsy of it that they don't quite grasp the fact that heroes aren't invincible or that with heroes come more villains and more danger.

And all these young kids like Michelle putting on these comic book shop masks so they don't have to feel powerless anymore, leaping into the fray without any training because they feel inspired by Vixen or Green Arrow - they don't really get it either. They have no idea what they're getting themselves into. The life of a vigilante is not glamorous. There is no glory here. This isn't a comic book. When you make the choice to go out onto those streets and look for your own brand of justice or vengeance then you have written your own story whether you know it or not. There is only one way this ends when you live your life like this.

Righteousness always ends in violence.

Dean looks over at Laurel, standing in front of the West family, arms crossed, calmly explaining the details of her complicated homecoming. She looks okay right now, despite the subject matter. She doesn't look lost or tired or sick. She's smiling kindly, handling their questions with ease and patience. She looks more comfortable here than she does at home.

He is not going to tell her any of this. His issues with vigilantism are his and his alone. He's not going to put them on her. Especially not when Black Canary has become such an integral part of her, woven into the very fabric of her being. You couldn't strip the Canary from her if you tried. She accepted the risks, is the thing. She knew the risks, she knew the danger, she thought long and hard about putting on that mask, and she made a well-informed decision because she believed it was the right thing to do. Yet she still died in the end, didn't she? Murdered in a violent, bloody senseless way. Stolen from her family just because she wanted to help people.

He looks back down at the file on Onomatopoeia, shuffling through the few blurry surveillance photos. You know what else? What a stupid fucking name. Obnoxious, pretentious, and just straight up overdramatic. Not only is the guy a serial killer but he's a giant tool.

''So, okay,'' Barry shakes his head, still looking confused. ''There are witches now?''

''There's always been witches,'' Dean says, but still doesn't bother to look up.

''I know it's hard to believe,'' Laurel adds, ''but I'd just like to point out...that you are really, _really_ fast.''

''Right, but that's science,'' says Barry, earning a snort from Joe.

Laurel doesn't miss a beat. ''Which used to be considered witchcraft, didn't it? Maybe witchcraft is just science that most people don't understand yet.''

Barry doesn't have a rebuttal to that.

''It's as real as you and me,'' Laurel says.

''To be honest,'' Wally props his chin up in his hands, both elbows on the table as he takes a long look at her. ''Jury's still out on you. No offense.''

''None taken.''

''All right, let me get this straight.'' Iris, still wearing Dean's jacket but seemingly feeling a lot better now that Wally's brought her food, stops rifling around in the bag of takeout. ''Witches are real. They brought Laurel back to life because they want her Canary Cry. And you,'' she looks over at Dean, ''hunt them? As in _Malleus Maleficarum_ hunting?''

He blinks at her, and then arches an eyebrow. ''Are you asking me if I use ancient torture methods to punish women for having irregular moles, red hair, or robust sex lives? Because no, I do not.''

She puts a hand on her hip, tilts her head to the side, and gives him a look like she can't decide whether she's exasperated or amused.

He leans back in his chair, smiling tightly. ''I used to hunt a lot of things.''

''A lot of things.'' Joe does not find that part as funny. ''Just how many things are there?''

Dean hesitates. He looks over at Laurel, but she just shrugs. ''Witches,'' he starts. ''Ghosts, vampires, ghouls, shapeshifters, hellhounds, demons, angels. It's all real. Name an urban legend and I'll tell you if it's real.''

Wally says, instantly, ''Zombies.''

''Yep. Real.''

Wally's eyes get big and he says in a small, half awed, half terrified voice, ''Holy shit.''

''I'm sorry,'' Barry says, ''but did you just say angels? _Angels_ are real?''

''Yeah, they're dicks.''

''They're - oh.'' Barry frowns. ''I - I...was not expecting that.''

''Dean and I actually met when he was on a werewolf hunt,'' Laurel adds.

''Wait,'' Joe holds up a hand, turning to look at her incredulously. ''You hunt these things too? I thought you were a lawyer.''

''Oh, I am,'' Laurel nods, but then flinches and corrects herself, ''I... _was_. Um, anyway, no, I don't hunt the supernatural. I was a waitress back when we first met. It's - The werewolf was - '' She blows out a breath. ''It's a long story.''

''But you're not a Ghostbuster anymore?'' Iris asks, blowing right past Laurel's increasingly nervous babble. ''You said you _used_ to hunt. You don't anymore?''

Dean tosses the file back on the table. ''No. I retired.''

''Why?''

''Figured thirty years of ghostbusting was enough.''

''Also,'' Laurel says, ''He knocked me up.''

Dean nods. ''Also that.''

''He's a stay at home dad now,'' she chirps.

''Mechanic, technically.''

She waves a hand dismissively. ''That's just temporary. You hate it.''

''We need the income, Laurel.''

''Well, we've still got to get you out of there. We'll figure something out.''

He sighs. ''How are we supposed to - ''

''What if we took out a second mortgage on the house?''

''You do realize,'' Wally drawls, ''that we're all still here, right?''

''Please don't take out a second mortgage if you don't need to,'' says Joe.

''Hey,'' Iris frowns. ''Wally, did you forget the - ''

Wally spins around, sticks his hand into one of the bags of takeout, produces a smaller, greasy looking white paper bag, and hands it over to his sister with a flourish. ''I learned after last time.''

Iris smiles widely, trading the bag for a kiss on the cheek. She seems better now. She's not shaking anymore. She spent the entire ride over to Star Labs on the phone with her father, calming him down, and then was immediately swept up into Barry's arms the second she stepped out of the car. Now she just seems hungry. Which Dean can understand. He leans over to peer at her food curiously but mostly uses it as an excuse to look at her, inconspicuously checking her over for any visible injuries he might have missed. ''Chinese?''

She looks up from her bag of goodies. ''Vietnamese, actually.'' She holds the bag out to him. ''Spring roll?''

''As a rule I never say no to a spring roll.''

''A rule I can get behind.''

He plucks one of the crispy rolls from the bag and immediately looks over at Laurel. She's shaking her head at him but she's smiling. He catches her eye, sending her a grin, and she blushes. It's nice to know that even after six and a half years together, he can still make her blush.

When Iris holds the bag of spring rolls out to her, however, her smile slips. Just enough for him to notice. She politely declines the food, even though she's barely eaten all day. That's a thing now. Her appetite comes and goes. Some days she's her normal self; avocado toast with a poached egg for breakfast like she's had every weekday morning for the past seven years, suggesting Mario's for dinner because she's craving mushroom and olive pizza, or slipping Mary a cookie before dinner with a wink even though Dean's just told her no.

Other days, she's repulsed by the mere mention of food, she can barely stomach the smell of cooking food, and it's a chore just to get her to choke down some toast or scrambled eggs. The other day, all she had to eat for the entire day was half a piece of the peanut butter and honey toast that Mary left behind at breakfast, a handful of pretzels, and a banana. He doesn't even know what she's eaten today. He knows she had yogurt at breakfast and managed to get down half a protein bar on the drive here. He thinks that might be it. It's a lot like when she was pregnant. Except she's definitely not pregnant. They've checked. Several times.

She blames it on stress now. She keeps saying ''it's just taking her a little longer to readjust than anticipated.'' If what Samandriel told Cas yesterday is true, it's not a matter of readjustment. She's in trouble. That's becoming clearer with every day that goes by.

''We're here!''

The sudden sound of Caitlin Snow's voice startles him away from the file he's just opened to flip through for the third time. He turns his head, catching sight of Caitlin and Cisco, and then instantly turns away from them.

''We're here,'' Caitlin says again, breathlessly. ''What's the emergency?''

''Yeah, we left a Brazilian steakhouse for this,'' Cisco jokes. ''Do you know what a Brazi...'' He trails off, and Dean can feel the thick blanket of tension fall over the room. ''What's he doing here?'' Cisco asks, ire clear as day in the tone of his voice.

Dean doesn't dare to look over at Laurel. If he does, he'll only see that questioning, concerned look on her face. He can't face that. All he told her on the way here was that Team Flash might not be all that receptive to his presence. He didn't tell her why. He didn't want to have to tell her that his father's anger is a hard thing to unlearn. He'll have to tell her eventually, especially now, but he's dreading the look on her face when he has to admit that there were a few times over the past seven months where he'd go days without sleeping and he'd wind up wearing his father's anger around like an ill-fitting suit. One of those bad nights happened here, alone, with Caitlin. He doesn't want to tell Laurel this. He doesn't want her to be disappointed.

He takes a breath, rises to his feet, and turns to face Caitlin and Cisco. He doesn't greet them right away because he's not sure how. He makes sure to keep his distance, staying as far away from Caitlin as possible. The West-Allen family haven't shown any signs of holding a grudge against him but the way Cisco is glaring at him and the way Caitlin is avoiding even looking at him tells him that they sure as hell don't feel the same way.

''He came with me,'' Laurel jumps in, before Dean can come up with something to say to them. She steps out of her spot tucked away to the side and moves to stand next to Dean. At the sight of her, both Caitlin and Cisco tense up. Instinctively, Dean latches onto his wife's wrist, ready to pull her behind him if they attack her thinking she's Dinah.

Cisco is the first one to relax, recognition gleaming brightly in his wide, stunned eyes. ''Wait. …Wait.'' He tears his eyes away from her reluctantly to look over at Barry. ''This isn't Siren.''

''No,'' Barry agrees. ''It's Laurel. Our Laurel.''

''Oh my god,'' Caitlin breathes out.

Cisco's reaction is far less subdued. He starts laughing, an ear splitting grin breaking out on his face and he jolts away from Caitlin to go in for a hug. ''It's good to see you, BC.''

Laurel hugs him back happily, grinning broadly. ''It's good to be seen.''

''How is this...?'' Caitlin pauses to go in for a hug of her own when Cisco pulls away. When she draws away, she keeps both of her hands clutching Laurel's. ''How are you here right now?''

''Witchcraft, apparently,'' Wally says dryly. ''Because witches are real. Zombies too. Oh, and vampires. And werewolves. Pretty much everything's real. Including angels and demons. Because why not, right? This guy,'' he jerks a thumb in Dean's direction, ''used to be some sort of monster hunter but retired from being Guy Buffy because the condom broke.''

Behind him, Joe rolls his eyes and sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face in something caught between amusement and exasperation.

Wally pays no attention to that, leaning in to ask his dad, ''Did that about sum it up?''

''I think you got it, yeah.''

''Oh.'' Caitlin blinks a few times, processing, and then shakes her head and says, ''Okay, wait. What?''

Cisco, meanwhile, just looks between Dean and Laurel a few times and then declares, ''Yeah, I can see that.''

''Oh, hey, unicorns!'' Barry exclaims. ''Real or fake?''

''Fake,'' Dean says quickly.

'' _Actually_ ,'' Laurel throws him one of those Looks of hers. ''There's conflicting information on the existence of unicorns. If they did exist, they're extinct now, but I've been told there is compelling evidence that they might have existed hundreds of years ago.''

Dean says, again, '' _Fake_.''

Barry sighs, disappointed. ''That's not a satisfying answer.''

Iris rubs his back. ''Shake it off, honey.'' She flicks her hair over her shoulder and turns to Caitlin and Cisco. ''This is the part where I point out that the emergency is that I was attacked by Onomatopoeia.''

''What?'' Caitlin's eyes widen. ''Why didn't you tell us that in the text? Are you okay?''

''I'm fine,'' Iris assures her.

''And Onomatopoeia?''

''He's in the wind,'' Barry says.

''Ugh,'' Cisco rolls his eyes. ''Dramatic bastard.''

''Lucky for me, Laurel showed up and blew him out of the house with a sonic scream. A _legit_ sonic scream. She destroyed that dude. He went through the door. Through the closed and locked door.''

''I seem to remember being there too,'' Dean says. ''Just throwing that out there.''

''You sure were, sweetie,'' Iris pats him on the shoulder. ''Here,'' she holds the bag of spring rolls out to him. ''Have another spring roll.''

He accepts a spring roll and then turns his head to look at Joe. ''We can't pay to replace that door, just so you know.''

''I figured,'' Joe says. ''Don't worry about it. Don't go taking out any second mortgages.''

''Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait, hold up.'' Cisco stares at Laurel like he's trying to physically restrain himself from flailing and asking a million questions about her scream. ''You have an actual sonic scream? You're a meta?''

''I'm fine,'' Iris says. ''Thank you so much for asking, Cisco.''

''Sorry.''

''Nah, I'm kidding. Fanboy away.''

''It looks that way,'' Laurel answers.

''Did you know that you were a meta?'' Caitlin asks.

''No idea.''

''That's why we're here,'' Dean says. ''There's a lot we don't know about what's going on with her and we need to talk to someone who's been where she is. Someone who has the same powers as her,'' he says pointedly. There is a decidedly awkward silence following that. He folds his arms over his chest and examines the expressions on their faces with growing irritation.

Just for the record, he is not in love with Dinah. Not in love, not in lust, he doesn't even know if they can be considered friends. Nobody believes him when he says that, but it's the truth. She is not Laurel. But he does feel some kind of loyalty towards her. It's not something he can easily explain. She is not Laurel, but... Dee allowed him to keep his wife's face. That's the only way he can think to put it. Whenever he would start to forget Laurel's face - from little details like the way she moved her mouth when she said certain words to things like her eyes or her smile - he would go to her, and he would remember.

He doesn't know what it is exactly that he owes her, what he can offer her that she would want, but he owes her something. For half a year, he used her as a living photograph and for half a year, despite her surliness, her snark, and her secrecy, she let him. Even when looking at him only conjured up memories of what his earth two counterpart did to her. Even after August. He owes it to her to keep her alive and to keep her as healthy as she can be while being illegally incarcerated.

This is exactly why the shamed looks her captors are exchanging worries him. ''Dinah _is_ still here,'' he says, ''isn't she?'' He can feel his jaw tick in annoyance when he gets no answer to that question. ''You would have called me if she escaped, right?''

''She's still here,'' Iris rushes to assure him. ''And yes, we would have called you if she escaped. It's just, um...'' She looks over at Barry for help.

''She might not be all that helpful right now,'' he says.

''Dinah's having a bad week,'' Cisco says, beckoning Dean and Laurel over to the computer monitors. He's already pulled up the images from the camera in Dinah's cell and as soon as Dean's close enough, he spots it. The bandages on her wrists. She's sitting on her pathetic little cot, knees up, braiding her hair, and he can see them plain as day.

''It's not what you think,'' Caitlin tells him before he even has a chance to ask. ''It was an escape attempt.''

''An escape attempt,'' he echoes dubiously. ''By slitting her wrists.''

''Sure,'' Cisco shrugs. ''Think about it. She fakes a suicide attempt, gets us to rush down there, and as soon as we open the doors to go in and help her, she pounces.''

''Did it work?''

Cisco narrows his eyes, offended. ''She's still in there, isn't she?''

''She locked Cisco and Barry in the cell,'' Wally blurts out, completely ignoring Cisco's loud sigh. ''Knocked me and Cait on our asses. It 100% would've worked if she hadn't stopped to look for her suit.''

Dean lifts his eyes from the screen. ''She went after her suit?''

''Mmmhmm, and then Iris knocked her out with a fire extinguisher.''

''How badly was she hurt?''

''Mild concussion,'' Caitlin says. ''Some...not insignificant blood loss. She'll be fine. She's weak right now but she'll heal.''

''How long ago did this happen?''

''Day before yesterday,'' Barry says.

Dean shakes his head, tightening his lips into a thin line. ''You should have called me.''

''We don't have to call you for every little thing,'' Cisco snaps. ''She wasn't in any immediate - ''

''Laurel?''

Cisco snaps his jaw shut and Dean looks up at the sound of Iris' concerned voice. He glances at her for half a second, catching sight of the concerned look in her eyes and then he turns his attention to his wife, where it should have been all along. Laurel hasn't said a word during this entire exchange. Not since Cisco brought up the security footage of Dinah. He should have noticed that. Her eyes are glued to the monitor, fixated on her doppelganger, and she looks shaken. Somehow both fascinated and horrified at the same time. She doesn't answer when Iris says her name. He doesn't even think she heard it. ''Laurel?'' She doesn't answer him either. He steps closer to her, bringing a hand to the small of her back and leaning down to murmur in her ear. ''Laur?''

She jerks in surprise at the touch, tearing her attention away from the screen to look at all the eyes on her. ''She...'' She looks back down at the screen. ''She looks exactly like me,'' she whispers.

''Trust me,'' Cisco says. ''She is _not_ you. She's like off brand you. It's like - Chanel,'' he gestures to her. ''And then,'' he points a finger at the screen, scrunches up his nose, and says, ''Walmart.''

''We don't have to do this,'' Dean tells her. ''If you're not comfortable with this, we can go home. Or I'll talk to her. You don't have to - ''

''Yes, I do,'' she says, and he recognizes that tone of voice. He's not going to change her mind. ''I need to talk to her. You know I need to talk to her.''

''Yeah, absolutely,'' Barry says. ''We can make that happen. Just be warned that she may not be all that forthcoming.''

''Understood.'' Laurel looks at Dean, catching his eye. She still looks profoundly creeped out by this but she also looks determined. He knows that look. That's her _screw fear, I know what I have to do_ look. There will be no talking her out of this. He looks back at Dinah on the monitor. She doesn't look nearly as animated as she usually does. It's not like her to not be pacing the length of her cell or flipping off the camera every ten minutes.

He tilts his head to the side and considers her plan. It's not the worst plan he's ever heard. Desperate, sure, but not awful. The people here are good. In over their heads maybe, but they're good at heart. If they saw her bleeding out, they would rush to her side to help without a single second of hesitation. It would be the perfect moment to strike. That part of her plan makes perfect sense. But why would she go after her suit instead of just running? Why would she risk it? It's just a bunch of leather and fishnets.

He looks up, eyeing the people surrounding him. When he catches sight of Iris breaking away from the group, he snatches up the case file and discreetly ducks away to join her. ''Iris.'' She looks up from where she's digging around in her purse, and he hands the file over. ''Thanks for letting me look at this.''

''Sure,'' she smiles easily. ''No problem.'' She slips out of his jacket and hands it over. ''Thanks for letting me borrow this.''

''Anytime. Hey, how do you know he's Caucasian?''

She looks thrown, putting down her purse and frowning down at the file. ''What?''

''The partial description of him,'' he says. ''It says he's Caucasian. It also says he never takes the hood off.''

''Right.'' She flips the file open, rummaging around until she can pull out a piece of paper and hand it to him. ''Witness statements.''

''Amnesty Bay,'' he reads. ''Isn't that all the way in - ''

''Maine,'' she nods. ''He's been around. As far as we can tell, he showed up on the scene in June in Amnesty Bay. We've confirmed that since then he's made kills in Blue Valley, Coast City, Ivy Town, and now here. He's smart, really smart, but Amnesty Bay was his first kill. At least his first kill as Onomatopoeia. He wasn't as polished then. He slipped up and someone saw him lift his hood up to make a phone call. It was dark but she was certain that he was a white guy, around six feet, possibly six foot one.''

''A phone call,'' Dean raises his eyes. ''Do you - ''

''We have nothing on a partner,'' she says instantly, because Iris West might be able to read minds. ''Just that there might be one based on that phone call. Or,'' she shrugs. ''Maybe he was just ordering a pizza.''

''Did this witness hear what he said?''

''No.''

''She hear his voice at all?''

''Male, deep, hoarse, possibly either a Midwestern or Southern accent.''

''Doesn't exactly narrow it down,'' he says. ''That describes a lot of people. Hell, that describes me.''

''I know.'' She takes the paper back from him when he hands it over. ''It's a loose description at best. He could be anyone.'' Then under her breath, she mutters, ''Just another reason white men can't be trusted.''

''I can't argue with you there.''

She puts the paper back in the file and looks up at him, lips pinching together. ''Anyway,'' she says, pointedly. ''What did you really want to talk about?''

''What do you - ''

She silences him with a single look.

He holds her gaze for a second and then looks over his shoulder at Laurel. She's talking to Cisco, listening with rapt attention to whatever he's saying. He turns back to Iris. ''When Dinah escaped over the summer, did she have to go searching for her suit?''

Iris shakes her head. ''No. She had it with her in her cell. When she was first captured, she refused to take it off. Since it's standard procedure to check everyone we bring in for hidden weapons, explosives, or self-destruct buttons and we found nothing on her, we figured there was no harm in letting her keep it.''

''But you didn't give it back to her when I brought her back in?''

''No, we put it in storage. Why?''

He's not sure how to answer that question just yet but he knows there's something there. It doesn't make any sense for Dinah, bleeding from her wrists and trying to escape a secure facility, to waste time searching for some supervillain suit. ''She went after it,'' he says. ''She could have escaped. Why would she take the chance?''

She does not look nearly as flummoxed as he feels. ''I've been around enough of these people to know that they get weirdly attached to those scraps of leather,'' she says simply. ''They become part of their personas as heroes and villains. It allows them a separation between that life and their civilian lives. They're not just outfits for them. They hide in them. Plus, with Dinah, you have to take into account that it's all she has left. I mean, she's on another earth with no way back home. She has no friends, no family, no allies, and she's jailed. That suit is all she has left. It makes sense that she would want to cling to it.''

He can't argue that point, not without telling Iris things that Dinah told him in confidence, but there has to be more at play here. Faking a suicide attempt is a desperate move. A clever move, but a desperate one. If Dinah is that desperate to get out then there's no way she would willingly endanger her one chance of freedom for that suit, even if it is the only link she has left to her past. It can't be about the suit.

''Either that,'' Iris allows, ''or maybe she's just really committed to the goth action Barbie aesthetic she's got going on.''

''I will admit I'm not ruling that out.''

''Dean!'' He whirls around at the sound of his wife's voice. She's standing next to Barry, looking at him expectantly. ''Are you coming?''

''I'll be right there,'' he promises. ''Don't talk to her without me.'' He turns back to Iris, leaning in a little closer to ask, ''You think you can do me a favor?''

''Depends on the favor.''

''Can you check Dinah's suit again?''

''What am I looking for?''

''No idea,'' he admits. ''A secret pocket with a piece of paper that has her master plan written on it in invisible ink? A cyanide pill? Cash? She had to have been looking for something.''

''I can do that,'' she agrees.

''And can you - ''

''I will do it discreetly,'' she nods. ''But,'' she points a finger at him, ''this means that next time you're in town, you're taking me out for pho and spring rolls.''

''Deal.'' He holds out his hand for her to shake. She has a _very_ firm handshake. He is not at all surprised by that. He gives her one last wink and then hurries to catch up with Barry and Laurel.

He tells them that he and Iris were just discussing Onomatopoeia. It works because it's not technically a lie and because as soon as he mentions that idiot, Laurel starts unleashing a steady string of questions. Dean has no doubt that part of the reason for the steady stream of inquiries is genuine concern. She never stops being the Black Canary. They're not two separate entities. She always wants to know what's going on, what she can do to help, what strategies are being used to catch the bad guys. But he also knows that another reason she's filling any possible silence is because of Dinah.

Dinah's existence freaks her out. She's determined to face her, but she hasn't asked much about her. He's told her about Dinah, or at least some things about her, but she hasn't asked the questions herself. He watches Laurel as they venture farther into the maze of Star Labs. He keeps an eye on her face, her posture, the tone of her voice as they get closer. She can handle herself. He's not worried about that. It's just that he knows her and he knows Dinah and he knows there is a good chance that this could end badly.

''You know what we should do when we're done here?'' He asks, the second there's a lull in her questions.

She looks at him, eyebrows raised. ''Go home? Because it's like a nine hour drive and it's already - '' she pauses to grab his wrist, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up to look at his watch '' - a quarter after eight?''

''No,'' he says, ''we should go to a movie.''

''A movie?''

''Just you and me,'' he nods. ''We can decompress. I still haven't seen Moonlight.''

''Oh my god, it's _so good_ ,'' Barry says. ''Uh, but not really what I would watch to unwind, if that's what you're going for. It's pretty heavy. Maybe the Trolls movie? I'm hearing good things about that one.''

Dean throws his arms out with an exaggerated grin. ''Trolls, Laurel! Come on. Anna Kendrick, Zooey Deschanel, the guy from that one boy band. I'm sold.''

''You sure know an awful lot about the Trolls movie,'' Laurel says.

''Mary watched the trailer seven times in a row when it first came out. She's been waiting for it.''

Barry asks, slightly incredulous, ''Did you just refer to Justin Timberlake as the guy from that one boy band?''

''Yeah.'' Dean sends him a carefully blank look. ''Why?''

''He's got like ten Grammys.''

''Wow, all for that boy band?''

''What? No, not for - '' Barry stops in his tracks to narrow his eyes at Dean. ''You're messing with me, aren't you?''

Dean grins but doesn't say a word. Beside him, amusement crinkles over Laurel's face and she starts to laugh. He watches in triumph as some of the tension in her shoulders releases. ''Don't take it personally. He does that to everyone,'' she advises, patting Barry on the shoulder as she moves past him. ''If Mary's been waiting for this movie then she would kill us if we saw it without her,'' she says, as soon as Dean falls in step with her once again. ''But maybe we could see something else. I could use a date night,'' she admits.

''A date night it is then,'' he promises. ''We can even splurge for the overpriced movie theater candy.''

''Oooh, fancy,'' she comments. ''Can we get Milk Duds?''

''Why would we _not_ get Milk Duds?''

Her smile dims as they get closer to the pipeline but she doesn't stop. ''I feel like Clarice Starling,'' she says, letting out a nervous laugh. ''Either of you have any advice?''

''Don't let her get in your head,'' Dean tells her. It's all he can think of to say. ''She'll try.''

''You sure you want to do this?'' Barry asks.

Laurel nods. ''I am.''

He doesn't argue with her the way Oliver undoubtedly would. He just accepts what she says. Dean catches the split second look of relief and surprise on her face when she is not immediately questioned or shot down. It's not an unfamiliar look to see on her face - that surprised look she gets on her face when she's treated with respect - but it's never easy to see. He knew that Oliver was a shit leader and a shittier friend, but he did his best to support Laurel's decision to work with him and his team. He didn't want to seem too overprotective or controlling. He doesn't regret that, not exactly, but he wishes he had done more to encourage her to step out on her own, build her own operation. She could have done it. He knows that. Maybe if she had, she wouldn't have died. Maybe if he had gotten her to leave, none of this would be happening.

Laurel quickly schools her features into her hardened lawyer expression as they enter the pipeline. She doesn't say anything, but she does straighten her posture and clench her fists. She looks ready. She's not. Dean knows her better than that. Her clenched fists are a nervous tic, not a sign of confidence. She looks over at him, just once, before Barry brings up Dinah's cell.

Dinah is already on her feet by the time the doors slide open to reveal her behind the thick glass, but she's not looking at them. She's looking at the camera in her cell with a curious frown on her face. Dean has about three seconds to take in the sight of her before she puts on her mask of indifference. She's much paler than she usually is, hair limp and greasy, bandages on her wrists sticking out like a sore thumb, and there is this troubling aura of sickness and weakness that isn't normally there. It's not hard to pick out the exact second she understands who she is looking at when she turns towards them. Her eyes widen, a barely noticeable sign of shock, and then her entire body relaxes and this wicked smirk rolls across her lips with ease.

''Look at that,'' she purrs out, slinking over to the glass. ''A dead woman walking.''

Laurel recoils minutely when she first lays eyes on Dinah, lips parting in astonishment as she stares unblinkingly at her mirror image standing in front of her. She recovers quickly. ''Look who's talking.''

Dinah's smirk falls away. She tilts her head to the side and looks Laurel up and down in this unnervingly slow and judgmental way. Then she pulls her lips back into this big toothy, wolfish grin and says, ''You look good for worm food.''

Laurel doesn't flounder for a second. ''I moisturize.''

Barry leans over to Dean to whisper, ''This is going on my top ten list of weird shit that's happened in the past few years.''

Dean smiles, just a little.

If she's surprised by how unbothered Laurel is by her presence - and she is - Dinah opts not to show it. She huffs out a small laugh instead. ''Cute.'' She looks around Laurel until her eyes land on Dean, and then she grins. For a second there, it almost looks genuine. ''Hi, Dean.''

''Hey, Dee,'' he greets. ''You've looked better.''

She holds up her arms to show him the bandages. She doesn't seem at all embarrassed or ashamed. He's not surprised. Dinah is a map of scars. She wears each and every one of them with a bluntness that he's never known before. These new bandages mean nothing to her. What's one more stroke on the canvas? ''Blood loss.''

''I heard.'' He shakes his head. ''Stupid move.''

''That's your opinion.''

''You slit your wrists,'' Laurel states.

''To _escape_ ,'' Dinah says. ''And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for those meddling kids.''

Laurel actually smiles at that. Probably because it's exactly the kind of cheesy joke she would have made. ''I'm sure.'' She looks less nervous now. More curious than anything. That's a relief. She's not 100% right now. That's no secret. She's a little more prone to panic attacks than before and he doesn't want Dinah to pick up on that. If she spots a weakness, she will absolutely exploit it. ''You don't seem all that surprised to see me,'' she points out.

Dinah steps back from the glass. She crosses her arms. ''I wondered.''

''You did?'' Laurel narrows her eyes. ''Why?''

Dinah's lips stretch into another predatory grin. She rakes her eyes over Laurel once more, from head to toe and then back up again. Dean has no idea what she could possibly be looking for but he doesn't like the way she keeps doing that. She's definitely looking for _something_. Scars, maybe. Something to tie them together. He feels suddenly, inexplicably, like he's intruding. Like he shouldn't be a part of this conversation. He doesn't want to leave. He wants to be right here, right behind Laurel, ready to pull her out if he needs to. But he has to wonder just how much they're going to be able to get out of Dinah with this many people in the room. She's lost control of her entire life. Her secrets are the only thing she has left. She's not going to give them away.

Dinah looks at Laurel for a long moment, and then uncrosses her arms, and steps back over to the glass. ''Real witches don't burn.''

Dean watches Laurel tense up for a second, fists clenching and then quickly unclenching. Dinah notices. She zeroes in on that one split second of vulnerability with hunger in her eyes. ''What the hell does that mean?'' He asks, cutting in before she can pounce.

Dinah pauses, eyes still on Laurel, and then she turns to look at him. ''My mother used to say that,'' she says. ''Or so I'm told. She was a historian. She specialized in the witch trials. There's an old joke in the history community that no real witches were ever killed back during the days of witch trials because they would have just used magic to escape. Tell me,'' she slides her gaze back over to Laurel. ''How did you manage to escape the stake?''

''I didn't,'' Laurel says. ''I'm not a witch.''

''Oh, sweetie.'' Dinah cocks her head to the side with another one of those intimidating smiles of hers. ''We're all witches.''

''I didn't escape anything. I was dead.''

''But now you're not. Does this surprise you? You're an Ellard. Ellard women have a habit of getting out of sticky situations.''

A quick, soft smile darts across Laurel's lips before falling away. ''Not all of them.''

Barry leans over to Dean again to whisper, curiously, ''Ellard?''

Dean looks between Laurel and Dinah before he answers. ''Her grandmother's maiden name.''

At the sound of Barry's voice, Dinah snaps to attention. She stands up straighter and looks at him with this big smile. ''Oh, hi there, Red,'' she greets smoothly. ''How's Iris?''

''None of your business.''

''Wow, don't be so touchy. I'm just making friendly conversation. Hey, listen. Bring me some gum the next time you're down here.''

He opens his mouth, seemingly ready to fire back at her, and then snaps his jaw shut, blinking. ''...What?''

''Gum,'' she repeats slowly. ''I want some. Big Red, if you can get it.''

He sighs and rolls his eyes. ''Oh, right, okay, because you want to chew me up and spit me out. I get it. That's clever.''

Dinah looks exasperated. ''No. I just like cinnamon. God, Barry,'' her lip curls in disgust. ''Not everything's about you.''

''Jesus, Dee.'' Dean tries to look as annoyed by her behavior as possible but he can't help the tiny smirk pulling at his lips. He has nothing against Barry but he has to admit it's entertaining to watch her fuck with people. She does it with such ease. She makes it look effortless. She must have been a hell of a con woman.

She looks away from Barry and turns her eyes to Dean, peering up at him, all false innocence and coquettishness. ''What? My mouth gets dry.''

''Do you have to antagonize every single person you interact with?''

''I'm an antagonist, you half-wit,'' she sneers.

''Look,'' Laurel cuts in sharply. ''If you want to talk in circles so you can keep us down here for as long as possible because you're lonely then go right ahead.''

Dinah blanches, recoiling and stepping away from the glass. She looks unexpectedly shaken and expectedly pissed off that Laurel has managed to split her apart her campy villain persona in less than five minutes. Dean's not sure why she's surprised, honestly. Dinah and Laurel aren't just birds of a feather. They are the same bird. There is nothing for Laurel to unravel. She already knows who Dinah is.

''You can have your fun with me,'' Laurel assures her calmly. ''I'll stay with you.'' It's a real offer. Completely genuine. Such a Laurel thing to do. Dean's really hoping Dinah doesn't take her up on that offer. ''But I need to ask you some questions first,'' Laurel goes on, ''and I'd really appreciate it if you could answer them honestly. I'm not here about being alive. I'm here because - ''

''I know why you're here,'' Dinah says. ''Your scream was triggered.''

''Triggered,'' Laurel repeats. ''So this - It was always there?''

''If your genes are anything like mine, yes.''

Laurel's face falls. This isn't overwhelmingly surprising news but she still looks crestfallen. Everyone wants power but they fail to understand how terrifying the weight of it is. Dean can understand that. He was the Righteous Man. His existence was manufactured by Heaven so his body could be a weapon. He still has nightmares about that. His body, his life wasn't truly his own until he was in his thirties. If Laurel feels at all the way he did back then, helpless, afraid, and disgusted by her own body - well. He hopes she doesn't feel that. It's an awful way to feel.

''Aww, don't look so down, Princess,'' Dinah coos. She sends Laurel another one of those sly, unnerving smiles of hers. ''You're acting like this is bad news. This isn't a burden. This is a gift.''

''I don't even know how to control it.''

Dinah snorts like she thinks that's a joke. She looks over at Dean again, locking eyes with him, but when he doesn't give her whatever she's looking for, her smirk fades. ''Wait.'' She stands straighter, putting her hands on her hips. ''Are you serious?'' She gapes at Laurel. ''Of course you know how to control it.'' She sounds incredulous at the idea that Laurel could ever be intimidated by these powers. ''It's a part of you,'' she says. ''The same way your arms and legs are a part of you. Can you control those? It's as easy as breathing.'' She makes it sound so simple.

That might actually be the most helpful thing she's ever said. Although, with that said, she's still looking at Laurel like she can't decide whether she wants to eat her up or crush her under her boot.

Laurel folds her arms and huffs bitterly. ''That has not been my experience.''

''How is it triggered?'' Dean asks.

''Trauma, mostly.'' The tone of Dinah's voice is casual, almost lazy. She seems to have no problem telling Laurel what she wants to know.

It's strange. If something has nothing to do with her, it wouldn't be unexpected for her to sit back and watch the fireworks. She loves drama, especially when it doesn't affect her. She is essentially a soap opera villain. But this does have something to do with her. These are her powers too. She has kept her life and her knowledge of her power under lock and key for six months because it's the only thing she can control in here. He's asked about her powers. Team Flash has asked about her powers. Her response was always the same. A vicious snarl of, ''Fuck off.'' She never gave anything away. And yet she has no problem letting Laurel into her secret club minutes after meeting her?

Call him paranoid but it's hard to trust that kind of contradictory behavior. Dean likes Dinah and all, but he has never once forgotten who she is. For all he knows, she could be lying through her teeth right now just for fun.

''Physical trauma,'' Dinah says. ''Emotional, a loss, an accident, a violent attack, does it matter? Trauma is trauma.'' She looks at Laurel. ''Any of this blowing up your skirt, sweetheart?''

''I - yeah.'' Laurel clears her throat uncomfortably. ''I get it.''

''I thought you got your powers because of the particle accelerator explosion,'' Dean says.

Dinah glowers at him. ''I said this happened to me around the time of the explosion,'' she snaps. ''It's not my fault if you jumped to conclusions.'' She looks at the three of them with a critical frown. ''Are you all very stupid?''

''Has anyone ever told you that you're extremely unpleasant to be around?'' Laurel questions.

''I'm locked in a fucking cage like a damn animal,'' Dinah hisses. ''I'll be as unpleasant as I want. At least I'm not a junkie.''

''Okay!'' Dean is already shaking his head. ''Nope. Nope, nope, nope.'' He steps in between Laurel and Dinah, turning his back to Dinah. ''We're done. This is over. Laurel, let's go.''

''No.'' She says it plainly, easily tugging out of his grasp. ''I'm not done here.''

''She's - ''

''I don't care.'' She looks over his shoulder. ''She can say what she wants. It doesn't matter. It's not like she can hurt me.''

''Laurel - ''

''Dean.'' She locks eyes with him. ''If you didn't want her to use my addiction as a weapon then you shouldn't have told her about it. That was you,'' she's calm, keeping her eyes on him, refusing to let him look away, ''wasn't it? How else would she know?''

He stops. He turns to look at Dinah. She grins at him. He swallows nervously. He turns back to Laurel. ''That was a mistake.''

Laurel shrugs her shoulders. ''Luckily, I am not that fragile.''

''Yeah, Dean,'' Dinah mocks from behind him. ''Quit being so controlling.''

''I need you to give me a few minutes alone with her,'' Laurel says calmly. She throws a look in Barry's direction. ''Both of you.''

''No.'' Dean disagrees instantly and vehemently. ''Dean.''

''Laurel, no. Absolutely not. It's a bad idea.''

''What exactly do you think I'm going to say to her?'' Dinah asks. The corner of her lip ticks up into a half smile. ''What are you worried I'm going to tell her?''

Nobody acknowledges her.

''Barry,'' Laurel sighs. ''Is it at all possible for her to physically hurt me?''

He shakes his head. ''No.''

''See?'' Laurel puts both her cold hands on Dean's cheeks. ''I'll be fine,'' she promises gently. ''I just need five minutes.''

He releases a breath and closes his eyes before bringing a hand up to cover hers.

''You're different when you're around her,'' Dinah remarks, curious. He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. ''You're weaker,'' she says. ''I guess everyone's a little weak when they have something to lose.''

Dean tightens his jaw. ''Please remember she's a con woman,'' he says. ''She's a manipulator. She'll say anything to get under your skin.''

''Wow, and here I thought we were friends,'' Dinah monotones.

He turns his head to look at her with an arched brow. ''Am I wrong?''

She beams at him. ''No.''

''Dean,'' Laurel says. ''Honey, I know. You've got to calm down here. You know I can handle this.''

No shit. She has an uncanny ability to overcome. He's not worried about her capabilities. He's worried about what she'll believe. Dinah can be awfully convincing when she wants to be. ''I know you can,'' he says. He threads his fingers through hers and lifts her hand up so he can press a kiss to the back of it.

Behind him, Dinah makes gagging noises.

Dean heaves another sigh and rolls his eyes heavenwards. ''I'm staying within shouting distance.''

Laurel chuckles. ''Got it.''

He pulls away from her to look at Dinah. ''You gonna cause trouble here?''

She looks confused that he's even bothering to ask that question. ''Of course. Trouble is what I do best.''

''Awesome,'' he deadpans. ''I'd be careful if I were you, Dee. Laurel's not someone you want to piss off.''

She laughs in his face. ''Whatever you say, buddy. Hey!'' She calls after him when he turns his back to walk away. ''Make sure I get my gum!''

He waves his hand dismissively, grumbling a, ''Yeah, yeah'' under his breath. He's going to get her the damn gum. That's not a question. She's got him conned around her little finger. He just doesn't want to make it that obvious.

For the first few minutes, standing in the hallway, Barry doesn't say anything to him. Dean can tell he wants to. It's obvious what he wants to know. When he finally does ask the question, Dean doesn't even bat an eye.

''Does this have something to do with what happened in August?''

Dean stops pacing but doesn't turn around to face the younger man. Everyone seems to have their own opinion on what happened between him and Dinah during her day trip to Star City. For the record, he did not have sex with Dinah. Not that anyone believes that. He was a grieving widow, she was his dead wife's doppelganger, there was a motel room. That's enough for people to draw their own conclusions. It probably doesn't help that he's refused to tell anyone what really did happen in August but fuck them. It's not their business to know. He got her back here. That's all that matters.

He turns, finally. ''What do you think happened in August?''

Barry leans back against the wall, studying Dean with a critical eye. ''Well, you shot her,'' he says plainly. ''But before that, I have no idea. Clearly there's something you don't want Dinah to tell Laurel.''

Um, yeah, it's _Dinah_.

She thinks it's hilarious that people are so sure that they slept together. She has no issue with encouraging the rumors. She has no shame. There's a big chance she'll tell Laurel they had some torrid affair just for kicks. Hell, even if she doesn't, there's an even bigger chance that she'll tell the truth about what happened and that's... Just because they didn't fuck doesn't mean nothing happened. He hasn't had the chance to tell Laurel about that yet, though he's sure she suspects. ''Dinah gets her rocks off by taking the truth and twisting it into something way more scandalous than it is,'' he says.

''True,'' Barry agrees. ''On the other hand, Laurel's your wife. You guys are a team. I don't think she's going to up and leave you because her Disney villain doppelganger wants to make trouble.''

''That's not what I'm - Laurel's not...'' He doesn't know how to finish that sentence. What does he say? Laurel's not in a good mood? Not feeling well? Not right? Is that it? She came back wrong? Dinah can tell Laurel whatever she wants, and Dean is still confident that his marriage will be fine. They work hard on that. That's not what he's worried about. Laurel isn't - She's not happy. She hasn't been happy. There's something... _off_. There's something wrong.

He knows it's only been a week and the wounds are still fresh, but she's not herself. She's lost. The other day, she called Mary by the wrong name. Called her Henry. He only knows that because Mary told him that night while he was reading her a chapter of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. He didn't know what to tell her when she took the book from his hands, held it to her chest, and asked who Henry was. Laurel never told him about calling Mary by the wrong name. He hasn't brought it up.

She's trying. She smiles, she laughs, she plays with Mary and comforts everyone and says yes to going to a movie with him. She eats food when she has no appetite so he doesn't worry. She stays off her feet and rests, she practices mindfulness and does her breathing exercises to avoid panic attacks. She gets out of bed in the mornings. She keeps going. It must be exhausting to try as hard as she is to make everyone believe that she's still who she was before.

There are real moments in between the pretending. There are real moments here and there where she's really her and she's really home, but that's not enough. Life should be more than stolen moments of okay in between hours and days of pain.

She's hurting. She's scared, she's confused, and she's sick. She doesn't want people to know this, but Dean is the one with the front row seat to it. He doesn't know if this is the aftermath of trauma, if she's just going through a bad period with her depression, or if the unstable spell is deteriorating and taking her away from him, but he knows this isn't something he can fix.

She's been spending a lot of time outside lately. It's something that's been gnawing at him. Ever since she got back, she has been taking every opportunity to be outside. Whenever it's not raining, she's out in the backyard, tending to that damn garden or sitting at the table on the back porch with her tea. She says she needs the space. She says she's having trouble with the walls. It bothers him. It shouldn't. It such a stupid thing to be bothered by. It shouldn't matter. It matters, he knows, because he is not outside. The distance between them is what bothers him. She feels so far away.

Death is an ending, but nothing tears people apart the way life does. He knows that better than most people. He just wants her to come home. He's been waiting for so long. He wants her to be happy and comfortable. He wants to go back to the way things were.

''Dinah has a habit of getting under people's skin,'' is all he eventually says. ''I don't want her to stress Laurel out.''

Barry nods, pausing for a minute or two before he answers. ''I get that,'' he says easily, offering a small smile. ''But Laurel seems like she can handle herself. She's the Black Canary.''

Dean smiles dimly. ''Right.''

Barry doesn't say anything else. He seems to be able to sense that Dean isn't particularly in a sharing and caring kind of mood right now. Dean's grateful for the quiet. It's uncomfortable and it drags on forever, but at least Barry's not trying to force the issue.

It feels like they stand out in the hallway forever. Dean keeps checking his watch impatiently, watching the minutes tick by. Five, then ten, then fifteen. He calls Thea to check in and see how Mary's doing and tries not to sound too anxious. He doesn't think he succeeds. This is only the - what? Fourth night he's been away from Mary in her entire life? He trusts Thea more than he trusts almost anyone else when it comes to his daughter but it's still nerve wracking to be away from her. He's just about to send a text to Sam with an update when Laurel appears. Doesn't even hear her coming. He looks up from his phone for half a second and has to do a double take because she's standing right there.

The second he sees the look on her face, that familiar shadowed, closed off look, his heart drops. ''Babe?'' She looks up at him, completely blank. ''What happened in there?'' He asks, even though he knows she won't answer him. He's not entirely sure she can. He think she might be disassociating right now. He knows what that looks like on her just like she knows what it looks like on him.

She looks at Barry, eyes still expressionless. ''You should go secure her cell.''

He doesn't move. ''Are you all right?''

She doesn't answer the question. Just repeats, ''You should go secure her cell.''

Barry throws a look over to Dean, uneasy.

Dean works hard to maintain a casual, unbothered look and gives the younger man a nod. He waits until Barry's gone before he says anything to her. ''Laurel?''

She's wringing her hands, fingernails picking at her knuckles where her rings used to be. She doesn't react to him saying her name.

He tentatively reaches out to close his hand over hers. She jumps, gasping and snapping her attention to him. She still looks confused. ''Laurel,'' he says again. ''Where are we right now?''

She blinks, opens her mouth, and then doesn't say a word. She licks her lips and frowns. ''...What?''

''What city are we in?''

''Starling City.''

He draws in a breath. ''Right,'' he sighs. ''You know what? Let's sit down for a minute.'' He moves to touch her wrist and she flinches away from him. The one sudden movement seems to at least trigger some awareness of reality but not exactly in the way he wanted. He notes the hitch in her breathing, the way her eyes dart around wildly, the sudden air of restlessness.

''Wh-Why?''

''Because it's been a very long day,'' he says calmly.

It works the way it always works for them. She looks up at him, breathes out, relaxes, and then all but collapses onto the ground. She sits cross legged, winding her arms around her middle tightly. He warily sits down across from her. She looks frantic right now so he is not going to touch her but he'd like to try to gauge how bad this is going to be. He has no issue helping her get through a panic attack but he doesn't think she would want to do that here, of all places.

''We have to go,'' she blurts out after a second, words tight and slurred.

''Sounds good,'' he says instantly. ''Where do we have to go? Outside? Do you want some fresh air?''

''No.'' She shakes her head. ''We just - We have to go. We need to go.''

He still has no idea what she means by that. She looks frustrated that she can't get all the words out. ''We'll go whenever you're ready,'' he decides. He leans into her space to rub her temples.

''I'm sorry,'' she gets out after a minute, face crumpling. ''I'm so sorry.''

Definitely a panic attack. She always apologizes when she's having a panic attack. ''It's okay,'' he says, and tries not to push too hard. Apologizing during these attacks, for her, seems to be a reflex. Telling her not to never works and only upsets her further. ''It won't be like this forever,'' he says instead, because that's what he says when this happens. ''This is a few minutes of your life, Laur. It's not a big deal.'' Rubbing her temples isn't doing a damn thing tonight. Her breathing is still too quick, morphing into short, uneven pants, and there are tears gathering in her eyes. She's in pain, one hand clawing at his knee, the other grasping at her throat.

Normally, if she's feeling that restless feeling that accompanies the onset of an attack, she goes for a run. When she's feeling floaty and blurred, she sits on the ground because something about it makes her more aware of her surroundings. When she's feeling breathless, she does breathing exercises. There are ways to avoid panic attacks, to stop them in their tracks, but not this one. This is happening and it's happening in Star Labs, in Central City, away from all the places she feels safe and all the places she can hide. When she comes out of this, she's going to be so mad at herself. She shouldn't be, but she will be. He knows her well enough to know that.

Dean is just really hoping she doesn't throw up. Because he's just. His daughter suffers from vertigo. He's so tired of cleaning up puke.

He gets her pressed against the wall and hopes that the feeling of the hard floor and the hard wall at least work to tether her here. He takes her hand and holds it to his chest, over his heart, so she can feel his steady heartbeat. ''Are you doing your breathing?''

She manages a nod, but her breathing is still abnormal and it's getting worse. He doesn't think breathing exercises are going to save her here.

''Just focus on my heartbeat,'' he says. ''You remember that scene in Dirty Dancing where he- ''

She cuts him off with a groan, resting her head back against the wall, and squeezing her eyes shut. ''Why... Why does everything...come back to Dirty Dancing with you?''

''Uh, I think the real question here is why does everything _not_ come back to Dirty Dancing with you?''

She makes a mildly distressing coughing noise that might be a laugh. ''Don't make me laugh,'' she wheezes. ''I'm - I'm trying to breathe and my chest...my chest feels like it's in a vice.''

''Okay,'' he says. ''No more jokes.'' He watches her, lips turned down into a frown, pushing back a grimace every time she gasps for breath. Her breathing is still getting worse. She sits there for less than a minute and then her gasps grow louder, more desperate sounding, and her eyelids snap open.

''Dean,'' she says his name in a quick, terrified pant.

He swallows a flinch. ''I know,'' he tries to soothe. ''I know it's scary. It won't be like this forever,'' he says again. ''It'll pass.'' This is what they do. This is something they both know how to do. It sounds stupid but it's almost comforting to be back here. This is familiar territory. It feels like their life again and less like they're trespassing on someone else's tragedy.

''I - I'm sorry,'' she says again, closing her eyes.

''Why? This is the most normal thing we've done since you got back.''

She manages to cough out another wobbly hiccup of a laugh in between wheezes. ''Th-That's...so fucked up.''

''True,'' he says, gently smoothing her hair out of her sweaty face with his free hand. ''But we're pretty fucked up so it fits.''

She doesn't waste any more energy on talking. This step of her panic attacks never lasts long. That doesn't mean the minutes don't feel like they're passing at snail speed. It never gets easier to have to just sit there and listen to his wife literally gasping for breath. Especially when it was one of the last sounds he heard her make on April 6th. A few seconds of pain and confusion, one horrifying gasp, some sickening gurgling while she was seizing, and then she was just gone. He's trying really hard not to think about that right now. He needs his heartbeat to feel steady under her palm.

Her gasping turns into choking within thirty seconds and then she moans and jerks her body away from the wall. She pulls her hand away from him and pushes herself up onto her knees. She braces one hand against the floor, presses the other firmly to her chest, and in one split second, her face crumples and the wheezing pants give way to hysterical sobs. It's a sudden shift but not unexpected.

''Okay,'' he whispers, hauling himself onto his knees in front of her. ''Okay, baby, I've got you. I'm right here.'' There's no quick fix for one of her attacks, not when she's this deep into it, but he can minimize her discomfort. Normally, at this point, he'd get her into bed with a cool cloth, a glass of cold water, and the lights turned off but his supplies are limited here. The best he can do is help her out of her jacket to cool her off, pull her hair out of her face, and encourage her.

She latches onto his wrist, though her grip is weak, but she can't say anything around the vicious and miserable sobs clogging her throat.

''I know,'' he says yet again, even though he could not possibly know. ''This is the worst part.'' The shaking comes on quickly this time, about a minute after the hysteria starts, but it takes the uncontrollable crying a little longer to subside than it normally does. He takes it in stride. ''You're doing great, Laur,'' he says. ''The shaking means it's almost over.''

Her grip on his wrist tightens slightly, which he takes to be a good sign. The sobs do eventually die down to whimpers, but her entire body is still trembling and she's still struggling to catch her breath. The shaking he's not worried about. It's adrenaline, just her body reacting to the stress. Her breathing is what he really wants to get under control. It's not like they have a paper bag for her to breath into or a hot bath to soothe her tense muscles or even one of those meditation apps she's so fond of to help direct her in her breathing.

''I think...'' Her voice is breathless and slurred, quiet and hoarse from crying. ''I think the worst is over.'' For a few seconds, she doesn't dare to move, and then she carefully sits back down on the ground. She groans, holding onto his hand with both of hers for dear life. He doesn't even bother to say anything about her fingernails digging into his flesh. She ducks her head down, pressing her forehead to his hand.

He reaches out massage her scalp, giving her a much needed minute of silence. In the quiet aftermath, he realizes, suddenly, that Barry still hasn't come back yet. He strongly doubts it's because Dinah's talking his ear off. Nice that the kid knows to give them a minute or two.

''This isn't her,'' Laurel croaks out without lifting her head.

''What?''

''It's not her fault.'' She raises her head, sniffling and looking at him with her bloodshot eyes. ''Don't blame her. She didn't do this.''

''You mean Dinah?''

She nods jerkily, reluctantly letting go of his hand.

He wipes some tears off her flushed cheeks. ''Was there a trigger at all? Or was this just random? I know you've been tired lately. I know that can - ''

''There was a trigger.''

''But it wasn't something Dinah said?''

''It wasn't her fault.'' She clears her throat. She looks away from him, down at her hands. Her nails are still scratching at her skin. ''We need to go.''

''You keep saying that.'' He gently threads his fingers through hers. He would rather have her claw at him than pick at her fingers. ''I think maybe we need to get you into bed.''

She snaps to attention at that. She looks bizarrely bewildered by the suggestion. ''What? No.'' She shakes her head adamantly. '' _No_. We have to go. I need to see her.''

''Her.'' Still no idea what the hell she's talking about. ''Can you stand?'' Gingerly, he helps her to her unsteady feet. She's wobbly but she does let go of his hand and stands confidently on her own two feet. ''You know these things can wipe you out for the rest of the day,'' he points out. ''And it's already late. I really think we should - ''

''I'm angry.'' Her voice is cold. She sniffles again and wipes at her eyes, but doesn't look at him. He sees her jaw tighten. ''That was the trigger. I'm angry. I'm _angry_.''

''You're angry.'' Had not been expecting that one. That's new. ''Why?''

''Because she knew.''

''Who knew? Dinah?''

''She knew the whole time,'' she snarls.

''You're gonna have to break this down for me.''

''She knew what I - what I was. What I am. What would happen to me.'' She grabs her jacket off the ground, shrugging back into it even though she still looks sweaty and shaky. ''She never told me.'' The look in her eyes keeps getting darker and darker with each word she says. There is no way to adequately describe how fucking pissed off she looks. She's not even ten minutes out from a panic attack, there are still tears and sweat on her face, she looks wrung out, but the look on her face and the clipped tone of her voice is so sharp that it could cut through steel. ''Thirty years,'' she bites out. ''And she never even bothered to tell me about what was in my own body.''

Dean gapes at her, a sick sense of dread coiling in his gut. ''Laurel, are you - are you talking about - ''

''My mother,'' she hisses out. He has never heard her voice sound like that. He's heard her doppelganger's voice sound like that, but never hers. ''My selfish, cowardly mother. She knew. She knew that Ellard women have this - this thing inside of them,'' she gestures at her throat. ''And she never said a word. Not one single word.''

He will be the first to admit that he does not like Laurel's mother. That bridge has been burned. She was never even interested in building it in the first place. It's not that she hates him that bothers him. He's never cared about that. It's how she treats Laurel and Mary. Like they're not worthy of her presence. Like nobody is worth anything to her if they're not Saint Sara. Even when she started trying with Mary after Laurel died, she would never really try. She showed up, half-assed trying to be a grandmother and failed miserably, but that was never about Mary. That was about trying to assuage her own guilt.

Dinah Drake-Lance has a cold heart. There's not enough room for everyone in it. Laurel never made the cut. She was shoved out as soon as Sara came along. There's no way Mary would have ever made it in. She's a shit mom and a shit grandmother. That's not news. But this is something else entirely.

This is not her failing to call Laurel on her 30th birthday only to call the next day and say, ''happy 29th birthday.'' This is not her doing that stereotypical grandparent thing where she ''teaches'' Mary that you can't leave the dinner table until you've finished all of the food on your plate, which took him about a week to undo and re-teach his daughter that you do not have to keep eating when you're not hungry because that's not healthy. This isn't her spending her entire visit criticizing him from his parenting to the cleanliness of the house to the state of his and Laurel's marriage. This is life altering.

The part that he's stuck on, chest seizing up in panic, is the part about all Ellard women. ''All Ellard women have this?'' He doesn't know how his voice sounds so calm. ''Laurel,'' he whispers. '' _Mary_.''

She brings a hand up to her throat, eyes clouding over. There's a haunted look on her face, like she's remembering the Cry exploding from within, rising uncontrollably in her throat, erupting in a wave of destruction. He wonders if it hurts. He's never thought about that before. It's all he can think about now.

''We have to go,'' she says. ''Now.''

.

.

.

 **March, 2013**

 _Dean flings the dishtowel over his shoulder and pulls open the oven door a crack to check on the lasagna. It doesn't smell like a lasagna. It doesn't look like much of a lasagna either. He shakes his head and closes the door. The things he does for that girl._

 _He pushes the lasagna out of his mind for a minute and fishes his phone out of his pocket to see if Tommy has gotten back to him yet. Still nothing. He hasn't answered any of the texts Dean sent him since noon. Guess he won't be coming for dinner tonight. He puts his phone down on the counter and leans back against it. Something's up with Tommy. Laurel's been ignoring it. She keeps shrugging it off and saying things like, ''He's just busy with the club. It only just opened. You know how important this is to him.'' Yeah, he knows. He went to the opening night just to support Tommy, even though he was surrounded by alcohol there and even though he and Laurel were both anxious about leaving Mary with Sam for a few hours. Verdant is not the problem here. That would be too simple. It's something else. Something bigger._

 _Dean can't help but wonder if it's this. If it's them. It's not like it would be completely out of the realm of possibility for Tommy to feel overwhelmed. Maybe this is too much._

 _He shoves off the counter and tosses the dishtowel onto the surface. He doesn't want to think about this right now. The past few days have been crappy enough. Mary's been going through her first cold. Laurel's mother was in town. It's been a mess. He can't deal with Tommy's issues right now._

 _He's just started rummaging around in the fridge for the fresh basil when he hears something. He shuts the fridge and moves to the doorway, poking his head out into the hall. ''Did you just call me?''_

 _Her voice calls back, ''Can you give me a hand with Mary while I get dressed?''_

 _He throws one last quick glance at the timer on the oven and then heads down the hallway. In the bedroom, both Laurel and Mary are dripping wet and wrapped in towels. Laurel's hair is pinned up with a few wet, messy tendrils falling down and sticking to her skin. Mary, all bundled up in her little hooded towel, is whining and squirming in her mom's arms. ''Hey, girls.'' He fixes an easy smile on his lips and props a shoulder up against the doorway. ''How was your shower?''_

 _''I think she liked it,'' Laurel says. ''She didn't want to get out. Can you get her into her pajamas for me while I dry off?''_

 _''Sure.'' He pads farther into the bedroom to ease Mary out of Laurel's arms. ''C'mere, kiddo.''_

 _It's hard not to notice that Laurel doesn't even look at him once during that entire exchange. He opts to ignore that for now and focuses on Mary. He gets her dried off, into a fresh diaper, and into her pajamas while Laurel dries off and throws on some sweats. In that entire time, Laurel says exactly seven words to him. She says, ''Don't forget to put lotion on her.'' That's it. Even then, she's still not looking at him. He's chattering away, making jokes, cooing at Mary, anything to make sure she stays relatively calm and doesn't have a fit while he's trying to get a diaper on her, but Laurel is completely silent._

 _He looks over at her once and she's just standing in front of the full length mirror in her underwear, staring at her reflection. There is no expression on her face. She looks at herself in the mirror blankly, like she can't recognize her own reflection, and then she tears her eyes away and puts her clothes on. He can't tell if she's disassociating or if she's thinking about something. He thinks it's most likely the latter - thankfully. She's got a lot going on in her head right now. This is not about him. This is not about Mary. This is about what happened today and what's been happening over the past few days. This is about her mother._

 _Dean is not the world's biggest fan of her mother. To be fair, he does barely know the woman. Prior to this unannounced visit, he had only met her a few times before. The first time was during the first year of his and Laurel's relationship. She'd had open scorn for him the second they met. He had assumed, at the time, that her dislike stemmed from the fact that he was older, unemployed, rough around the edges, mooching off her daughter, and they had moved into together before they even knew each other. That was why Quentin hated him. That's why Quentin still hates him. Her dislike was reasonable at the time. Except it hasn't gone away over the years._

 _The second time he met her was when Richard died and he has to admit he didn't try that hard to get to know her then. He was far too preoccupied with making sure Laurel – who was pregnant at the time - and Bea were okay and staying hydrated and fed._

 _The most recent time he met her was last September. Laurel was hugely pregnant, still reeling from Oliver's return, and hadn't spoken to her mother since Richard's funeral. Dinah came into town on her way to visit her sister in Tacoma and took the time to meet them for lunch just so she could sit there, criticize Laurel's every move, ignore him completely, and then make outrageous demands to be at the birth and to stay in their apartment with them for at least two weeks after._

 _Dean may not know her very well, but he knows she's a pill. She's also a shadow. The relationship between Laurel and her mother is sporadic at best and not for lack of trying on Laurel's part. She tried to involve her mother in wedding planning back when an actual wedding was still on the table, but Dinah couldn't be bothered. She tried to involve her in her pregnancy for a little while, but Dinah blew her off until she appeared out of nowhere and tried to overcorrect. She's tried to involve her in Mary's life, but Dinah has shown zero interest in her granddaughter. She was here for three fucking days and she held Mary maybe twice._

 _Dinah is a dark cloud hanging over Laurel's head. She is one of the many ghosts that haunt her life day in and day out. She is not some evil, abusive monster. There is nothing tangible that Laurel can hold up and say, ''Look what you've done to me.'' She's just an absence. She's alive so there's nothing to mourn but there's nothing to hold onto either._

 _He understands how it feels to live with that kind of invisible scar._

 _He finishes up with Mary, snapping on her Cat in the Hat footie pajamas with ease. ''There you go, pumpkin.'' She's not quite as squirmy anymore but the poor girl still looks unhappy and she's looking up at him with these big, heartbreaking eyes like she's asking him why he's not making her feel better. ''Are you still miserable?'' He presses his lips to her forehead in a gentle kiss to check for a fever. She's not warm. The worst of the cold has passed, but she must be exhausted. She's been so congested and her sleep has been awful. It has not made the past few days with Laurel's mother easier. ''Colds are the worst,'' he murmurs, ''aren't they?''_

 _''I think the shower was a good idea,'' Laurel says. ''The steam really seemed to help with her congestion. She's still fussy but she's breathing easier.'' She takes Mary from his arms, bouncing the baby girl softly when she fusses. ''I'm just going to nurse her now. That usually helps. Do you think we should give her a dose of baby Tylenol tonight?''_

 _''I don't know if she needs it. I think her fever's gone.''_

 _''Right,'' she nods. ''Right, I knew that. Just, um...'' She closes her eyes briefly, clutching Mary a little tighter. ''My mom said...'' She trails off, frowns, and then shakes her head. ''It doesn't matter. We just need to remember to keep an eye on her for an ear infection.''_

 _''We will,'' he says. Then, as casual as possible, he says, ''If you wanted to lie down for a bit, I can feed her.''_

 _She stares at him. Slowly, a smirk crawls across her lips. ''You can breastfeed her? Honey, I know you're a superhero of a dad, but,'' she pats his chest, ''these wells are dry.''_

 _''Ha ha. You know what I mean. There's breast milk in the fridge. I can give her a bottle.''_

 _''Why would you need to do that when I'm right here?''_

 _''I just know today has been a shit day and I thought maybe you'd want - ''_

 _''I'm fine.'' her voice is stern, and the small smirk drops off her lips instantly._

 _''Never said you weren't,'' he says easily. ''But, hypothetically, if you wanted to talk about anything, I'm here.''_

 _''You hate talking,'' she says shortly, and then she turns around and walks away from him._

 _He stares after her, eyebrows raised. Just like him to end up with someone just as emotionally fucked as he is. He gives her a minute to cool down while he heads into the bathroom to wash his hands. She's in the living room when he emerges, just settling down on the couch with Mary and the nursing pillow. He hesitates, watching her from behind for a minute. ''For the record,'' he says. Her shoulders tense but she doesn't turn around to look at him. ''I don't hate talking to you. It's the best part of my day.''_

 _She turns to face him, an apologetic tilt to her mouth. She looks like she wants to say something to him but before she has a chance, there's a knock on the door. Dean reluctantly looks away from her, heads over to open the door, and immediately realizes he completely forgot that he invited Sam over for dinner._

 _''Got your text,'' Sam says in lieu of an actual greeting. ''Lasagna, right?''_

 _Dean considers his answer to that carefully. ''...In a way.''_

 _Sam narrows his eyes. ''I don't know what that means,'' he says, ''but I brought garlic bread. Garlic bread goes with all things.''_

 _In theory. Dean accepts the foil wrapped loaf of garlic bread and steps aside to let his brother in. ''Quick question: Can you not feed yourself?''_

 _Sam scrunches his nose up in what looks like deep offense. ''You invited me. Also,'' he holds up a finger. ''Unlike you, I'm still a hunter and funds are kind of limited right now.''_

 _That's because Dean was the one who brought in most of the money. This kid can't hustle to save his life. He never bothered to learn. Hustling people at pool, gambling, these were all things he was ''above'' when he was a moody teenager and an even moodier young adult. He had no problem spending the money Dean brought in, but earning it was where he drew the line. Wonder if he's regretting that now that he's all on his own._

 _''You won't see me turning down free meals anytime soon,'' Sam says._

 _''You might after tonight,'' Dean mutters under his breath, closing the door._

 _''What?''_

 _''Nothing.'' He grins, holding the garlic bread up. ''Thanks for the garlic bread.''_

 _''Sure.'' Sam makes a beeline for Laurel and Mary. Before Dean has a chance to warn him, Sam leans down to kiss Laurel on the cheek and then almost immediately bolts upright. ''And that's your breast.''_

 _Laurel has very little reaction to that. ''Yep. The left one, to be specific.''_

 _He grimaces, cheeks flushing red. ''Sorry.''_

 _Somehow, it actually manages to get a small chuckle out of her. ''Oh, sweetie, at this point everyone's seen my boobs. At least you didn't get full on flashed like some people.'' She doesn't say much else and her smile is clearly half-assed but at least it's something._

 _''I've gotta get back to the...'' Dean pauses, blinking. ''...Lasagna.'' It's not lasagna. He looks at Laurel, catching her eye briefly. ''Holler if you need anything?''_

 _She nods but doesn't divert her attention away from Mary._

 _He ducks back into the safety of the kitchen once more, checking the timer on the oven. He gives the ''lasagna'' a cursory look and then pulls the fresh basil out of the fridge. He glances up from what he's doing briefly when Sam wanders into the kitchen and starts rifling around in the fridge. He's just slicing up the garlic bread and arranging it on a baking sheet so he can throw it in the oven for a quick toast when he hears Sam's quizzical voice say, ''You know I love your cooking but that's one funny looking lasagna.''_

 _Dean stops what he's doing for a minute, trying to ready himself for the inevitable ridicule, and then he says, ''It's vegan.''_

 _Sam stands straight and turns to him with wide eyes. ''I'm sorry, I must have misheard you. Did you just say it's vegan?''_

 _''Yes.''_

 _''You made a vegan lasagna?''_

 _''Yes.''_

 _''You.''_

 _''Yes.''_

 _''A vegan lasagna.''_

 _''Yes, Sam.''_

 _Sam stares at him for a long time. ''Have you had a stroke?''_

 _''Look.'' Dean crumples up the foil the garlic bread was in. ''Laurel's been on a health kick lately because she's breastfeeding. She showed me this recipe the other day and said she'd like to try it so we're trying it.'' He throws the foil away and grabs a plate off the counter, thrusting it at his brother. ''Do you want some carrot bacon?''_

 _''Uh.'' Sam looks down at the plate. ''What now?''_

 _''Do you want some carrot bacon?''_

 _''What?''_

 _''It's bacon made out of carrots.''_

 _''...What?''_

 _''It's - ''_

 _''No, I heard you,'' Sam says. ''I just wanted to know if you hear yourself.''_

 _Dean sighs again for the millionth time and pinches the bridge of his nose. This is what he gets for trying to do something nice for his wife._

 _After a moment or two of deliberation, Sam takes a piece of carrot. He chews the thing at an agonizingly slow speed. He looks...confused. ''Huh,'' he says eventually. ''You know what this tastes like?''_

 _''A carrot?''_

 _''A really screwed up carrot.'' Sam opts not to take another bite, which is probably for the best, and instead puts the carrot back on the plate. ''What'd you do to this thing?''_

 _''I don't fucking know,'' Dean grumbles. He tosses Sam's half eaten carrot into the trash and puts the plate of definitely-not-bacon-but-also-not-really-carrots back on the counter. ''There's liquid smoke and - I don't - It's vegan.'' He looks at the plate, lip curling in disgust, and then he has to turn away from it. He's still personally offended by that. If Laurel tries it and likes it then - okay. Maybe it would be worth it. But calling carrot sticks bacon is blasphemy. He feels wronged._

 _''It's not bacon,'' Sam declares._

 _''No shit.'' Dean slips the baking sheet full of garlic bread into the oven next to the vegan...whatever._

 _''How can a lasagna be vegan?'' Sam asks, twisting the lid off the soda in his hand. ''Doesn't the whole thing rely pretty heavily on the cheese?''_

 _''If it's a good lasagna.''_

 _''Cheese isn't vegan.''_

 _Dean swallows yet another sigh. ''It is if you're using cashew ricotta and hemp seed parmesan.'' There is about a five second stretch of silence after he says that and then Sam promptly bursts into laughter. ''Yeah, yeah, yuk it up,'' Dean rolls his eyes. ''You came here for dinner, which means you're stuck eating this shit too.''_

 _''Then I'm glad I brought the garlic bread.'' Sam lifts the soda to his mouth and then halts right before he takes a sip. There's a look on his face like he's just had some major epiphany. Slowly, he lowers the bottle and asks, very seriously, ''Is there kale in it?''_

 _Instead of verbally answering, Dean groans and looks up at the ceiling in despair._

 _Sam cackles. ''This is great,'' he says, abandoning the soda in favor of fishing his phone out of his pocket. ''This is amazing. I'm texting Cas. And also everyone we know. People need to know that Dean Winchester, the world's most obnoxious carnivore, is currently making a vegan lasagna with hemp seed parmesan just because his wife asked him to.''_

 _That is the part that snaps Dean out of his carrot bacon induced shame and back to reality. Calmly, he wipes his hands on the dishtowel and then he leans over and snatches the phone from Sam's hand before he can send a single text. ''No, you are not. I don't want anyone teasing her about this right now.''_

 _''Nobody's going to - ''_

 _''Sam.'' He glances over at the entrance to the kitchen quickly, just to make sure they're alone. ''I'm doing this because she needs a win,'' he says lowly. ''It's been a shitty couple of days.''_

 _Sam goes quiet at that. All the humor drains out of his face and his expression morphs into that all too familiar pinched, concerned look. ''She did seem a little off,'' he admits. ''What happened?''_

 _''Her mother was in town.''_

 _''Her - '' Sam's jaw drops. ''Wow. Her mother? I... I didn't even know they had a relationship.''_

 _''They don't,'' Dean says vaguely. ''I...don't think Laurel is Dinah's favourite person.''_

 _''She's her daughter,'' Sam says disbelievingly._

 _Dean looks down at the fresh chopped basil on the cutting board. He says, tersely, ''Some parents suck.''_

 _Sam doesn't say anything to that._

 _''She didn't come here for Laurel,'' Dean goes on. He busies himself with the task of cleaning up the kitchen. He gets the basil into a bowl, wipes down the counters, and puts the cutting board in the sink. ''She came here for Sara.''_

 _''Sara? Uh, how does that work?''_

 _''She had it in her head that Sara was alive,'' Dean says, pulling open the dishwasher to load it up. ''She saw some girl's picture and convinced herself it was Sara. And let me tell you, this girl looked nothing like Sara,'' he shakes his head. ''But Dinah was convinced and when she's convinced, it's only a matter of time before Quentin drinks the Kool Aid too, which means Laurel's left holding the bag for both of them. She's barely slept the past couple of nights because she's been working overtime to prove her mother wrong. Eventually, it all spiraled and then it came out that Dinah knew Sara was getting on the boat with Oliver that day.'' He snaps the dishwasher closed a little harder than intended. ''She caught her sneaking out and instead of locking her ass in her room, she told her some bullshit about following her heart. Even though she knew it would hurt Laurel.''_

 _Sam lets out an unimpressed low whistle. ''Jesus.''_

 _That about sums it up._

 _''So she feels guilty because of what happened to Sara,'' Sam says. ''Does she feel guilty about what she did to Laurel?''_

 _Dean can't help it. He bursts into loud, bitter laughter. It doesn't sound much like laughter. ''Why would she? It's just Laurel.'' It comes out in a snarl. ''It's not just her. It's Quentin too. They both know Laurel will always forgive and forget no matter what they do so they think they can get away with anything. She's the fucking pack mule for their emotional weight. But who gives a shit if her back is breaking, right? It's Laurel. She can handle it.''_

 _Sam says nothing for a long time other than a quiet, contemplative, ''Hmmm.''_

 _Dean turns on the faucet to rinse off the cutting board. He's trying to focus on cleaning and keeping his hands busy but when he looks over at his brother, Sam has this thoughtful look on his face and he's looking at Dean like he's waiting for something. ''What?''_

 _''Nothing,'' Sam says. ''Just - you know. This doesn't remind you of anything? Of anyone?''_

 _Dean tenses, gripping the cutting board tighter. He says, as casually as possible, ''Nope.''_

 _''Dean.'' Sam says his name so warily it sounds like he's approaching a wounded wild animal. ''Come on, man, you know our childhood - ''_

 _''This has nothing to do with our childhood.'' Dean turns off the faucet and whirls around to scowl at Sam. ''This is about hers.''_

 _Sam stubbornly refuses to drop it. ''You really don't see the similarities?''_

 _Dean shoulders past Sam to check on the lasagna without answering. Yes, of course he sees the similarities. How could he not? He stands there, staring at the lasagna for a long time before he finally lets out a breath and looks over at Sam. ''Can you take the lasagna out of the oven when the timer goes off?''_

 _''Sure thing.''_

 _''The garlic bread might need a few more minutes but you have to watch it or else - ''_

 _''Dude, I've got this.''_

 _''If that garlic bread is burnt when I come back,'' he points a finger at Sam, ''you're paying for the pizza we're inevitably going to order tonight.''_

 _''Okay, control freak.''_

 _Dean reluctantly leaves the food in Sam's moderately capable hands and leaves the kitchen. In the living room, Laurel is still curled up on the couch with Mary. She's just finishing up burping her and he can hear her talking softly, apologizing for everything that's happened over the past few days. He hangs back for a moment, listening to the sound of her tired voice. It kills him that she feels the need to apologize for things like a random cold or her mother's behavior. She's always apologized a lot but it wasn't until she was pregnant that he started noticing how frequent her apologies are._

 _He steps further into the living room and as soon as she sees him, Laurel is already rushing to apologize. ''I'm so sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have snapped at you.''_

 _He waves it off. ''Don't worry about it.'' He takes a seat on the coffee table so he's sitting across from her. She seems far more relaxed than she was earlier today. Then again, she usually does when it's just them._

 _''Is dinner ready?''_

 _''Soon.'' He smiles thinly. ''Listen, Laur, there's...'' He trails off. He's not sure how to approach this. He's not Laurel. He doesn't do motivational speeches. Besides, she has a habit of getting overly defensive whenever someone brings up the fact that her parents don't treat her right. He would find that to be a mildly irritating character flaw if he didn't relate to it so much. ''Back in 2006,'' he starts. ''We were working this case. A rawhead. It had taken some kids and, uh, during the takedown, I got hurt.''_

 _''Dean.'' She's already shaking her head at him. ''I love you but I really don't think I can hear the story of how your heart almost gave out at twenty-seven again. It freaks me out.''_

 _Doesn't exactly bring up shiny happy memories for him. ''Right, sorry, but that's not what I was getting at.'' He looks at Mary, still awake but seemingly content for now, snuggled in the safety of Laurel's arms. Then he looks at Laurel. It's not hard to see the toll her mother's three day long visit has taken on her. He doesn't think he's seen her look quite so broken down in a long time._

 _When she was pregnant, she had a rough first trimester. We're talking multiple trips to the emergency room for vomiting, dehydration, cramping, and fainting spells. It was the hardest part of the pregnancy and he suspects that some of her intense hatred of pregnancy might stem from the misery she experienced then. It was an awful time, and he did not make it any easier on her. He wasn't around as much as he should have been back then. He was still hunting, still chasing after Dick Roman, determined to tear him to pieces and get revenge for what happened to Bobby. Even when he was home, he was often distant, distracted, and drunk. He wasn't entirely checked out, he tried to do what he could, but there were stretches of time where Laurel was mostly on her own. He will freely admit that he failed her. It was one of the most physically and emotionally grueling times of her entire life, she was scared out of her mind, and he was a useless sack of shit. He is damn lucky she still agreed to marry him because looking back on it, she should have just left his sorry ass._

 _During that time, her grandmother was primarily the one taking care of her. He was too busy being a selfish asshole, Joanna and her dad did what they could but they both had full time jobs, Tommy was over all the time but still had a life of his own, and Bea needed a distraction from Richard's rapidly deteriorating health. Eventually, she was needed more at her husband's side, but for a solid month and a half, she was a fixture._

 _Dean lost count of how many times he would come home and find her doing meal prep or laundry or cleaning the apartment. She did everything she could. Went grocery shopping, made sure Laurel was resting, held her hair back for her when she was sick, kept her as hydrated as possible, and got her to nibble on homemade popsicles when she couldn't keep anything else down. When Laurel was upset or scared or just plain pissed off because she couldn't do the things she used to do, Bea was there to talk her down. She was everything Laurel needed back then. That's common knowledge. Bea's always been everything Laurel needed. What's not so common knowledge is that Laurel is not the only one who needed Bea._

 _Beatrice Drake has been, right from the start, good to him. That has never changed. Not even back when he was being the world's biggest idiot. He would come home and she would be there with her kind, cheerful greetings, offering to warm up a plate of food for him, waving off his offer to drive her home and telling him to get some sleep instead. She wasn't afraid to call him on his shit, plainly informing him that he needed to do better, that he had choices to make and that he either needed to make Laurel and the baby a priority or stop dragging her through the mud with him and remove himself from the equation entirely. But she never forgot that he was in pain too. She was sorry for his loss. She wanted him to heal, to be okay, not just so he could be there for Laurel but because she cared about his wellbeing._

 _She never once told him to ''man up'' or ''suck it up.'' It wasn't about toughening up because there were people he had to take care of. It was about getting better._

 _''I don't want you to be miserable for the rest of your life, my dear,'' she had told him, patting him on the arm. ''You deserve better than that.''_

 _Nobody had ever said that to him before. The thing about living through a childhood like the one he had is that it is all you know so you consider it normal. It's hard, as a child, to find fault in what your parents do. So you become defensive, protective of the version of them you've created in your head to block out the hurt. Dean is willing to admit that he clung to that mentality, to the idea that his father was a hero and could do no wrong, for far longer than he should have. He made excuses well into adulthood._

 _Bea had - still has - a very specific way of undoing that. She shows him kindness and suddenly the memories of his father shift and darken in his mind. That sounds so simple and easy but really all it takes is one good person, one light to illuminate the cracks._

 _Laurel is still holding tight to the dark right now. He doesn't know if he should be pushing her or letting her figure things out on her own._

 _''When I was in the hospital,'' he starts again. ''Sam called Dad. Dad never picked up but Sam left voicemails. Told him everything. He told him about the hunt, my heart, that there was nothing they could do.'' He swallows hard. ''Dad never showed. Never even called.''_

 _She looks thrown by that. ''I... I didn't know that part.''_

 _''No. It's not - It's not something...'' It's not something he talks about. With anyone. Not even Sam._

 _''Right,'' she nods. ''That's okay. You don't have to - ''_

 _''I do,'' he insists. It's not a memory that is happy or pleasant. It doesn't make him feel good. In all honesty, he doesn't really have that many warm and fuzzy memories of his father. Maybe a handful. Less, probably. ''I remember that we were on our way to Nebraska when Sam told me that he had called Dad. I didn't want to talk about it but Sam did and I was trapped in a moving vehicle so there was nowhere for me to run.'' He licks his lips. ''I was angry.'' He laughs lightly. ''I said he shouldn't have bothered him. That Dad had better things to do. I defended him. Sam was pissed but I wasn't surprised. You know? I wasn't surprised.'' He tries to smile for her but it feels stiff on his lips. ''It still stung,'' he admits. ''I was dying and my own father couldn't be bothered to take one day off from his vendetta to visit his sick kid. It's been a long time since that and it still stings.''_

 _He has never admitted that out loud to anyone before. It doesn't feel as cathartic as he was hoping it would._

 _''You want to know the part that hurts the most? I know that if there had been no faith healer, no miracle, I would have died without ever seeing my dad again. I don't know if he would have regretted that decision but it's a decision he would have made. I know that. Just like I know that if the situations had been reversed and Sam had been the one in that hospital bed, Dad would have come.'' And there it is. That thing he's never said. That thing he's hardly allowed himself to think about. It's been eight years almost exactly since that case and it is still there in the back of his mind like it just happened last week. The pain of the initial injury, the exhaustion that followed, the fear, and the knowledge of death; that it was going to happen and he couldn't outrun it._

 _He remembers Roy La Grange, his batshit crazy holier-than-thou wife, the Reaper. He remembers Layla Rourke and her mother. He remembers everything about Layla. From her smile to her voice to the way he would check the Ford City, Nebraska obituaries every day until one day, there she was. All that was left of her was a name, a picture, and a few lines about her life._

 _And he remembers the absence. The empty space where his father should have been. The way it felt to be forgotten. How does someone forget something like that? How do you move on? ''Even after all these years, that part still hurts.''_

 _Briefly, just for a fleeting moment, she looks caught. She looks down at Mary. He expects her to be defensive. She obviously knows what he's getting at._

 _''It never really leaves,'' he says. ''That feeling of being forgotten. Does it?''_

 _She just keeps looking down at Mary. Mary isn't asleep but he can tell she's starting to drift off, contentedly sucking on her pacifier. Her eyelids are drooping but she's still looking up at her mother like she hung the moon._

 _He doesn't want to pressure Laurel to say anything if she isn't ready so he keeps his mouth shut and gives her a minute. When she eventually does look up at him, she looks miserable. She's not crying but she's close. ''It would be easier if I knew,'' she practically whispers._

 _''Knew what?''_

 _''What I did.''_

 _''Laurel.'' He's horrified to hear her say that. ''No,'' he says firmly, shaking his head. ''No, you didn't - ''_

 _''Don't say I didn't do anything,'' she cuts him off sharply. ''There has to be something, Dean. There has to be.'' She sounds so desperate to find some kind of explanation. ''She can't just not like me. That doesn't make any sense. There has to be a reason. There has to be something. But I... I don't know what I did,'' her voice cracks. ''I wish she would just tell me. If it's something I can fix, I want to know. I just need to know what's so broken in me that makes everyone hate me.''_

 _''Laurel, stop it.'' His voice comes out sounding louder and sharper than intended. Mary jerks in Laurel's arms, pacifier immediately falling out of her mouth. Immediately, she starts whining and squirming, turning to bury her face in Laurel's chest._

 _Dean sighs heavily. Whatever he's trying to do here, he's failing miserably. If he knew how to make these things better, especially when it comes to crappy parents, he would feel better. As it is, he can't even move past his own damages. ''This isn't about you,'' he tries, once Laurel has calmed Mary down and given her back her pacifier. ''You're not broken. She is.'' It's the only thing he can think of to say. Ideally, it would help. It's the truth. Logically, he knows it's not that easy._

 _It's never that easy._

 _''Telling Sara to get on that boat was wrong,'' he says. ''The way she treats you is wrong.'' He figures that's the most impactful thing he can say. Truthfully, he just really wants to say that to her. He figures nobody's ever told her that before. Nobody ever told him that until she came along._

 _''The way your father treated you was wrong too,'' she says, without looking at him. ''I just feel bad for Mary,'' she says, before he even has a chance to let her previous comment sink in. ''I had such amazing grandparents growing up. I feel bad she's not going to have that. I love my dad and I know he loves her, but he's - well, you know.'' She smiles, somewhat sadly, and runs her hand over Mary's head softly. ''I just don't want her to feel alone the way we did.''_

 _''She won't,'' he promises. ''We'll make sure of that.''_

 _There are many promises he intends to keep when it comes to these two, but that is at the top of the list._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

When Laurel thinks of her mother - specifically in regards to her childhood - what she remembers most is a confusing mixture of love and indifference.

She remembers that her mother was the one who talked her down when she was having a panic attack because Dad got too worried and anxious. She can still hear her mother's voice in her head sometimes; that low, calm, steady voice breaking through the fog of panic to guide her home.

She also remembers the way her mother would drift away from her. She would cling to Sara, wrap herself around her like she was the most precious thing her arms had ever held, but she would distance herself both emotionally and physically from Laurel.

Laurel has a lot of memories of the back of her mother's head.

She grew up knowing that her mother loved her, but that she just didn't like her all that much. She never knew why. She used to wrack her brain trying to unlock that mystery, but she never could.

Now, though. Now. Well, she has to wonder. Maybe she wasn't a bad kid. Maybe she wasn't difficult to be around or hard to love. Maybe the divide wasn't because she was too emotional, too clingy, too whiny, too soft, too hard, just _too much_. Maybe the distance between them is not because of something she did or did not do. Maybe it's because of what she is. What's inside of her. Maybe her mother never truly disliked her. Maybe she was just _afraid_ of her.

That's all she can think about on the drive to her mother's townhouse near the CCU campus. She turns the thought over in her head and takes it apart, trying to decide if it makes her mother's detachment better or worse. She decides it's the latter. If her mother didn't like her because of some facet of her personality that she found irritating, that would be one thing. If it's because she knew Laurel would grow up to someday have this sonic scream and she was afraid of that then that's so much worse.

Laurel did not ask for this. She would like to make that clear. She didn't ask for these meta powers that she doesn't want and can't control. She wasn't given a choice in the matter. Why should she be punished for something she was born with? Why does she always have to be the one who takes the punishment?

She is so tired of being punished.

By the time they turn down her mother's street, she has thought up an entire speech in her head. It's made up of all the things she's wanted to say to her mother. Dean keeps asking her if she's sure she wants to do this tonight. If she's sure she's ready. She tells him that she's been ready for years. She has thirty-one years of pent up anger and pain and it has all been compounded by one disturbing revelation from her cantankerous doppelganger. She's ready.

Then she knocks on the door, and her father opens it.

If possible, he looks even more surprised to see her than she is to see him. ''Laurel?''

''Dad?'' She gapes at her father, standing in the doorway of her mother's - no, scratch that, his _ex-wife's_ house, a long ways away from his own home. He looks comfortable in the space, like he's flung open this door a million times before. He's dressed for bed and Laurel can see her mother over his shoulder, already in her robe and pajamas, walking around the kitchen, probably getting her nightly cup of hibiscus tea ready. It's like opening the door to the past.

He looks like a deer in headlights when he sees her and for a split second, Laurel almost feels bad for interrupting their night. Whatever this is, it's not something she had known about.

But then her mother pops up, appearing at Dad's side suddenly, and before Laurel even has a chance to think, her body remembers the anger. Her body tenses up, clenches her fists, and swallows the pressure in her throat. Her mother doesn't notice. She looks bewildered, looking back and forth between Laurel and Dean. ''What are you two doing here?''

Laurel tries to say something, but nothing comes out. She's forgotten the speech. Oddly, unexpectedly, all she can think about is that worn out composition notebook that she used to keep hidden under her mattress when she was a kid. It was her research book. She wrote down her mother's likes and dislikes, her pet peeves, the subjects she liked to talk about and the ones she preferred to avoid, the things that made her mad and the things that made her laugh. She wrote down all of Mom's favourite things, from pizza toppings to books and movies to songs to her favourite kind of cheesecake. For a long time, she used that as her reference book. Her guide to the one family member she couldn't understand.

She tried to model herself after her mother. She avoided the things her mom hated and went through a phase of only talking about the things her mother liked. Anything to get even a fraction of the love Sara got. It never worked. It all had a lasting impact on her, but it never gave her the close relationship she was looking for.

She likes mushroom and olives on her pizza because it's Mom's favourite. She enjoys reading because Mom has been an English professor since Laurel was eleven. She listens to Fleetwood Mac because that was what her mother listened to. She's a good public speaker because her mother taught her to be. She decided to become a lawyer instead of following in her father's footsteps because her mother balked (rightfully so) at the idea of her joining the police academy. Hell, she had a home birth just because it was what she was ''supposed'' to do as Dinah Drake's daughter.

Absolutely none of that got her anywhere.

Instead of a relationship with her mother, she just got a lifetime of lies and disinterest. That is all she can think when she sees her mother standing there. It almost knocks her off her feet.

''We need to talk to you,'' Dean speaks up for her, when it becomes clear that she can't. He places a hand on her lower back and she releases a slow breath, unclenching her fists.

''Oh.'' Mom smiles. She doesn't even give Dean so much as a dirty look. How uncharacteristic of her. She must be really thrown by their sudden appearance. ''Of course. Come in.'' She steps aside to let them in, pulling Dad along with her.

Laurel looks over at Dean before she steps over the threshold. He's looking at her worriedly, like he's trying to wordlessly ask her if she's really sure about this. She offers him a tiny smile and squeezes his hand ever so briefly as she moves past him into the house. He stays close to her when he follows her, practically glued to her, hands on her hips. She can't tell if that's because he's concerned for her or because he's uncomfortable in her mother's home. He did refer to this place as ''the lion's den'' that one singular other time he was here.

''Laurel,'' Dad says her name as soon as the door shuts. There's a tiny glimpse of a smile starting on his lips. ''I know how this looks. Your mother and I - ''

''I don't care.'' She doesn't mean for that to sound so careless and rude. It's just it's obvious what's going on here. The lights in the room are low, there's a half empty bowl of popcorn on the table, a single blanket on the couch, two half drunk mugs of hot cocoa next to the popcorn, and a movie paused on the television. She knows what a casual night in looks like when you're in a comfortable, long running relationship. This is basically every Friday night for her and Dean. There's also the fact that her parents look like two kids who have just been caught necking in the woods.

If she hadn't just learned a giant family secret, she would be ecstatic right now. Her mother is hard to read but her father has always worn his heart on his sleeve and she knows that he has never fallen out of love with her.

''It's good you're happy,'' she adds on. ''I want that for you.''

Her parents look at each other. They don't look like they were expecting that. She wonders what they were expecting.

''It's just a - a trial kind of thing,'' Dad says. ''We're trying out dating.''

''We're even going to counseling once a week,'' Mom says. ''We're serious about doing it right this time.''

''That's nice,'' Laurel murmurs. She sinks heavily onto the nearby loveseat. So glad their daughter's brutal murder could bring them back together. How romantic. She blows out a breath and leans forward with her head in her hands. Okay, that was mean. Despite how angry she is with her mother, she doesn't want to be cruel.

''I know this is unexpected,'' her father's voice says, ''but we figured you would be...happier.''

Laurel raises her head quickly. ''No,'' she says, trying for a smile. ''It's not that. I - I am happy.''

''Honey, are you all right?'' Mom asks. ''You don't look well.''

Laurel almost laughs at that. ''I'm not well,'' she says harshly. ''I'm pretty fucking far from it.'' She looks at her mother. She meets her eyes. She doesn't look away. ''Care to guess why, Mom?''

She doesn't think she has ever been so candid or blunt with her mother before. She definitely doesn't think she's ever sworn in front of her. But the words pour out, anger bleeding into her every word, and she watches her mother go pale as the weight of the words sink in. That one single look, that tiny bit of understanding and guilt, is enough to convince Laurel that it really is true. Her mother knew all along. There had been a small part of her clinging to the hope that maybe it was a misunderstanding. Not anymore.

''Tell me something,'' she gets out, rising to her feet. ''Be honest with me for once in my life. How relieved were you when I died?''

''Laurel!'' Even her dad's shocked admonishment isn't enough to deter her this time.

''It meant you got away with it, didn't it?'' She mocks. ''That must have been such a huge weight lifted off your shoulders. You didn't have to tell me a thing and no one would have to find out what a liar you are.'' She takes a step in her mother's direction as she's ranting, and then another, and another, and then Dean is there.

He steps in between them without a second thought, moving one hand to her waist and startling her out of her rage. ''Take a breath,'' he advises. ''Is this really how you want this to go down?''

''I was never relieved you were gone,'' Mom says. She sounds...honest. But defeated. She must know there's no way to weasel her way out of this one. ''Not ever. Not for one second.''

''But you know,'' Laurel insists. ''You know what I'm getting at, right?''

''You got your inheritance.''

''My _inheritance_?''

''That's what your grandmother called it. The sonic scream.'' She sounds so incredibly calm right now. ''I'm sorry.''

Laurel lets out a choked laugh. It's a miracle she doesn't start sobbing. She can feel it in her throat. It's hard to keep the anger steady when all she feels like doing is collapsing to the ground and screaming and screaming and screaming. ''Yeah? What are you sorry for? Are you sorry that this is happening to me, are you sorry you lied, or are you just sorry you got caught?''

There is no answer to that. She's not sure she would have wanted one anyway.

''Is anyone going to fill me in on what the hell is going on?'' Dad's voice is sharp, tearing her out of her blind rage briefly.

She can't look at him, shuffling her feet and glancing over at Dean, waiting for him to help her out here. He doesn't look like he knows what to say either. ''I - I have this thing,'' is all she manages to come up with.

''She's a meta,'' Dean chimes in.

Dad stares at her blankly. For a second, she wonders if he's even heard them at all. Then he turns to look at Dean, a stony glare falling into place on his face. ''No, she's not.''

She sighs and steps over to him, placing a hand on his arm. ''Daddy - ''

''No,'' he says it again, firm and resolute. It's like he thinks that if he says it with enough conviction, it will be true. ''You're not. That's not possible. It's not - This isn't you.'' He sounds so offended on her behalf. The idea of her being something other than the completely normal daughter he so desperately wants her to be seems to be preposterous to him.

''It is now,'' she says.

''No, no, that's - ''

''The destruction at the cemetery wasn't vandalism,'' she says, because it's all she can think of to prove it to him. ''It was me.''

He shakes his head, still stubborn as ever. ''Laurel, this is crazy.''

''I don't disagree.''

He rubs at his forehead. Off to the side, Mom still hasn't said a word. She's just standing there. ''How did this happen?'' He asks. ''Was - Was there an accident? Does it have something to do with how you came back?''

''We think my return triggered it,'' Laurel says. ''But it's always been there. Apparently,'' and this is the part where she looks straight at her mother, ''it runs in the family.''

Her father whips his head around to face Mom. He looks like the bottom has just dropped out from underneath him. ''Is that true?'' Mom doesn't say anything but she shifts uncomfortably. Laurel doesn't think she has ever seen her unflappable mother look so profoundly guilty before. It doesn't help. Maybe it's good that she feels guilty. It means she has a conscience. It doesn't make anything better. She still lied. If she felt so guilty about it, she should have told the truth. ''You knew.'' Dad says. He doesn't phrase it as a question.

Something about the tone of his voice sets her off because as soon as he says it, Mom's all about begging. ''Quentin.'' She reaches out to touch him but he flinches away from her. ''Quentin, please,'' she begs. ''Please let me explain.''

''Explain,'' he echoes. ''How do you explain this, Dinah? What's your excuse? You just forgot to tell me? For almost thirty four years?!'' He looks incredulous. ''What was the plan here, Di? Huh? Were you just never going to tell any of us? If this is something that affects the girls - ''

''It doesn't affect the _girls_ ,'' Mom cuts in. ''This only affects Laurel.'' She turns her pleading eyes to her eldest. ''I'm so sorry. This is how it works. Only firstborn daughters have this.''

Laurel stares at her mother, frozen somewhere between anger and terror. She feels stuck. She can't speak or move. There is a sickening tightening in her chest and her stomach is turning over, threatening to upend what little she's eaten today. Judging by the look on her mother's face, she doesn't fully understand what this means. Dean does. He has gone completely still, silently staring at Mom. Laurel swears she can feel the rage and the fear radiating off him in heat waves. Even Dad gets it, eyes widening as a look of horror passes over his face.

''Firstborn daughters,'' Dean's voice is strangely calm, and there's this look on his face that Laurel hasn't seen in a long time. ''You mean like _my_ daughter?''

Mom closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath. She looks regretful and full of guilt. At this point, her guilt and regret mean nothing. ''I'm sorry,'' she says again. Even that just feels repetitive and hollow.

''That's why you were so adamant you needed to be there when she was born, isn't it?'' Dean goes on, still deadly calm.

''It - It's why the women in my family have home births,'' Mom admits, wringing her hands. ''It takes a lot to control this. Physical pain is an exposure risk.''

''So you didn't give a crap about meeting your grandkid,'' Dean bites out. ''You just wanted to make sure your dirty little secret stayed a secret. And you didn't have some attack of conscience after Laurel died either, huh? You just wanted to make sure losing her mother hadn't brought out the Drake in my daughter.''

She doesn't disagree with any of that. She doesn't even bother to glare at him.

''You better start talking,'' Dad warns. ''Right now, Dinah.''

She looks sufficiently cowed. ''What is it that you want to know?''

''All of it,'' Laurel says. ''Let's start with: why only firstborn daughters?''

Her mother looks uneasy. She takes a seat on the couch, away from them. She looks so small sitting there. Laurel has never thought of her mother as small before. To her, Dinah Alexandra Drake-Lance has always been this larger than life force, so composed and put together, beautiful and intelligent. A little cold sometimes. Maybe somewhat pretentious. Infuriatingly classist. But somehow awe inspiring. A wonder to her young daughters. Laurel spend her entire childhood trying to get close to her brilliant but standoffish mother. Her mother was never interested; too big of a presence, too looming. Now she just looks resigned. Older and weighed down by the past, sitting on that old couch, bogged down by her secrets. She's done it to herself. Still, Laurel can't help but feel sad that this is what it's come to.

''On the Drake side - or the Ellard side, rather - we are the descendants of a witch,'' Mom says.

Laurel pauses at the word ''witch'' and exchanges a quick look with Dean. _Real witches don't burn_ , she remembers.

''Her name was Hazel Aelard. I don't know the exact details of what happened in her life. This was way back in the 1500s. All my information comes from your grandmother and great aunt Faye. All I know is that Hazel was involved with a powerful coven somewhere in England. None of them were good people and they had enough power to wreak havoc on entire villages of people, but that wasn't enough for Hazel. She wanted more. She wanted power and wealth and eternal life. I don't know what it is that she did but eventually, she was banished from the coven.'' She pauses briefly, looking up at Laurel and then almost immediately dropping her gaze back down.

The casual, comfortable way she's telling this story, so sure of the details, tells Laurel that it might be one that has been talked about frequently in the Drake family. There are already bits and pieces of her childhood falling into place. Aunt Natasha has always had a fascination with witches and history. Sometimes Grandma would reference a Hazel in this hushed, angry voice. And Aunt Valerie, the oldest of the three Drake girls, was treated so differently, like she was somehow frail or ready to spontaneously combust at any given moment.

Laurel is furious with her mother because she's her mother. It was her job to protect her children, to prepare them for life, and she failed. All along there's been this bomb inside of her oldest child, just waiting to go off, and she never even bothered to warn her. But it wasn't just her, was it? That would be a simple kind of failure. An easier betrayal to swallow. The fact remains, however, it wasn't just her. The entire Drake side of the family knew and they did nothing. They said nothing. None of them warned her. Even Grandma, her biggest supporter, kept her mouth shut. Her silence hurts the most.

''What does some greedy witch from the 1500s have to do with anything?'' Dean bites out impatiently.

''Hazel refused to accept the banishment,'' Mom says evenly, continuing on with her story and completely ignoring him. ''She tried to overthrow the leader and take the position for herself. It didn't work. She managed to kill the leader but the rest of them turned on her. They nearly killed her. They drained her of her power, beat her within an inch of her life, and permanently disfigured her, but they didn't kill her. They cursed her instead. Except they didn't just curse _her_.''

''They cursed the entire family line,'' Laurel sighs, bringing up a hand to rub at her left temple.

''Hazel was pregnant at the time,'' Mom says. ''They wanted to punish her so they cursed her baby, but they didn't understand how unhinged she was. They thought she would care about her child. She didn't. All she cared about was power. They unknowingly gave that to her when they cursed her child. Hazel used her daughter like a tool,'' she says darkly. ''Raised her to be a weapon instead of a person and when she was a teenager, Hazel's daughter waltzed into that coven and decimated them all on her mother's orders. The coven thought of Hazel as a monster, they wanted her to be remembered as a monster, and so she gave them a monster.''

Laurel blinks, feeling her shoulders slump. ''Is that what I am?'' She asks. ''A monster?''

''No!'' Her mother's response is instant. ''That's not what I...'' She takes in a breath. ''We never had a word for this,'' she tries. ''We didn't know about metahumans. We just knew that this was designed to be a curse, a permanent reminder in every generation of what Hazel did so that's what we called it. It's not triggered in every case,'' she says. ''It's not something that's completely inevitable. Your Aunt Valerie has it but she's avoided being triggered. My cousin Elizabeth - Hers hasn't been activated either. They got lucky. I... I thought you had gotten lucky.''

''Yeah,'' Laurel snorts. ''I feel real lucky.''

''You went through so much,'' Mom tells her. ''I thought if you could go through all of that without activating the curse...''

''You thought you wouldn't have to tell her,'' Dad cuts in. He's looking at her like a stranger. She looks more shaken by that than anything else.

''What about when I got pregnant?'' Laurel demands. ''What about when I had a daughter? You didn't think I had a right to know then? I need to know what's going on with my child and you deliberately withheld information about something she has. That's not okay.''

''You sound like your grandmother.''

''Well, I'm glad at least one person was trying to look out for me and Mary.''

''I did what I thought was right.''

''How could you possibly think this was right?''

That gets her on her feet, eyes blazing. The fact that she has the gall to be angry right now is telling. Despite the big show of remorse, she still thinks she was in the right. ''You have no idea what this family has been through, Laurel.''

Laurel laughs again; less bitter this time, more tired. ''You're right,'' she says honestly. ''I don't. I don't know a damn thing about my family.''

Mom quiets at that. She looks up at Laurel without a word, conflicted, and then she asks, ''Do you remember your cousin Edie?''

Laurel swallows the sudden lump in her throat. ''Of course I remember her.'' How could she not? Before the Lance sisters became the resident tragedies of the family, there was Edie. Laurel remembers her older cousin in bits and pieces. The ballet slippers, the classical music she liked to listen to, her singing voice, that mischievous little half smile of hers. She was the beautiful, witty older cousin Laurel idolized.

The last time she ever saw her was when she was nine and Edie was fifteen. After that, her life became a string of bad luck. A horrific car accident that killed her best friend and left her seriously injured and in a medically induced coma for six weeks followed by a stay in some top rehab center in the UK, and then once she got better, she just...never came home. She became this ghost who sent letters and postcards and pictures updating the family on her life. She sent presents on Christmas and she called Grandma and Grandpa on their birthdays, but she was never physically there.

She studied abroad for a few years, then she moved around a lot, eventually settled somewhere in Oregon, and then she killed herself when she was twenty-one. Just like that she was gone. It's been speculated that maybe she had gotten into drugs after the crash because Aunt Val mentioned frequently that Edie had ''pain'' leftover from the accident.'' Either way, her death shook the entire family. Grandpa took it especially hard. She had been the first grandchild and he adored her. Edie had also been a firstborn daughter.

''Oh my god,'' she murmurs. ''Edie had this.''

Her mother nods somberly. ''The crash brought it out. After it happened, Valerie thought it was best to send her to live with Faye in Maine. There was never any coma or rehab center. We thought we could use that as an excuse and then she could come home once she had gotten things under control. Valerie and Danny - They had to think of their other children. The boys were still young. They had to protect them. Faye had had her cry for over forty years at that point. She knew how to control it. The hope was that she would be able to help Edie with it. Teach her how to live with it. But your cousin...'' She grimaces. ''She didn't take the change well. She was...volatile.''

''You mean dangerous,'' Dean translates, crossing his arms.

''She was scared,'' Mom says. ''Faye tried. Valerie tried. Natasha and I - We all tried. Edie was just too unstable. She couldn't control it. She couldn't be around other people. So Valerie and Danny made the decision to move her out to Maine permanently. We told you kids that she was traveling. A few years later, when Faye got sick, she couldn't care for Edie anymore so Valerie brought her back to Washington. They wanted her to be close to them in Tacoma but - ''

''Not close enough that she would hurt the boys if she went off,'' Laurel finishes for her.

Mom presses her lips together. ''They set her up in a house in Aberdeen,'' she says. ''They paid for everything. They made sure she had everything she needed. Rent, groceries, clothes, books, everything. They called her once a day and they set aside time to see her on her birthday. They did the best they could.'' She says this all very passionately. It's all an excuse, that much is obvious. She just doesn't want it to sound like one.

Laurel isn't buying it. _They did the best they could_ is a phrase too often associated with excusing parental neglect. It's a way to minimize the damage. Whitewash the past. You hear the words and suddenly you're supposed to forget the wrongdoings and think _oh, well, at least they tried; some parents don't even do that._

John Winchester did the best he could. What does that say about that particular phrase?

''The best they could,'' Dean repeats mockingly. ''By locking their kid away like she was fucking Rapunzel?''

''You do not get to pass judgment on my sister for this,'' Mom bites out. ''You have no idea how hard it was for them to do what they did.''

Instinctively, Laurel instantly steps in front of her husband to place herself in between him and her mother. ''I'd watch your tone when speaking to him if I were you, Mother. You're already on thin enough ice as it is.''

''Let me get this straight,'' Dad pipes up, blowing right past the tension. ''Everything you told us about Edie's life after the accident was a lie?''

''You didn't need to know the truth,'' Mom says softly. ''It was a family matter.''

''Right.'' A fleeting, scornful smile crosses his lips. ''Family. I guess I never realized you didn't consider the girls and I part of your family.''

''Oh, no,'' she shakes her head adamantly. ''No, that's not - ''

''What you meant,'' he interrupts. ''No, of course not. You seem to be having a lot of trouble saying what you mean tonight, Dinah.''

''Quentin, you and the girls _are_ my family,'' she says. ''You mean everything to me.''

He doesn't even acknowledge that. ''What about Jackson and Seth?'' He demands coldly. ''They were all close. Did they ever get to know what happened to their sister or do they still think she just up and left them? What about your parents? Beatrice and Richard kept all of Edie's letters. Richard used to read them out loud every time we went over there. He was so proud of his globetrotting granddaughter. Did she even write those letters? Or were they in on this too?''

Mom is quiet for a long time. ''They knew the curse had been activated,'' she admits. ''They didn't know the severity of the situation. We told them she was doing well.''

''God, Dinah,'' he scoffs. ''What the hell is wrong with you?''

''We were trying to protect them from the pain!'' She cries. ''Mom felt so guilty for passing this down. We didn't want her to be hurt. None of us did. Including Edie. That's why she wrote the letters. She didn't want them to worry.''

''What about Edie?'' He looks at her with narrowed eyes. ''Your sister cut that girl off from her entire support system and hid her away like she was some kind of shameful secret. Is that how you all saw her? Is that what Laurel is supposed to be now?''

''No! No, of course not!''

''Did Edie ever get to see her brothers again?''

''That was Valerie and Danny's choice to make.''

''That's a no then.''

''It wasn't my place to step in. It was their choice.''

''Well,'' Laurel says, ''their choice killed their daughter.''

It's a horrifying thing to say but it's a horrifying story she's just been told. She keeps thinking about her cousin. Edie is a closely guarded memory to her. She is a smiling fifteen year old, a confident young woman, a lucky daughter who got to be close with her mother without even trying. She is an image of a beautiful ballerina, blurred by time. She is the first casualty, the first loss, the first moment of silence around the dinner table. She was the first ''in memoriam'' angel ornament Aunt Natasha made. Sara was the second. Laurel wonders, idly, if Nat has made her an ornament yet.

There are a lot of dead girls in the Drake family history.

Laurel has worked hard to remember Edie's life and not her death. She prefers to think of her as the cousin who was an amazing ballerina and not the cousin who slit her own throat at age twenty-one just to get away. For the most part, she thinks she has succeeded. When she thinks of Edie now, she mostly thinks of her dancing in their grandparents' living room, practicing for a ballet recital, her movements full of this incredible fluid grace while six-year-old Laurel poked her head into the room to watch with big eyes.

Even still, it's hard not to think of what happened after. The Drake family used to be close. Most people don't know that now. Everything was a big production. Every holiday, every birthday, every Sunday night dinner. The whole family would congregate at Grandma and Grandpa's house. They were loud and fun and close. Then Edie died and it was like the lights all started to go out one by one. They tried for a few years, kept it up for as long as they could even though Aunt Valerie cried when she saw the empty place setting saved for Edie, but then Sara died and everything just collapsed.

Laurel can't remember the last time she saw her family all together. Actually, yes, she can. Grandma's funeral. Before that, it was Grandpa's. The funerals are all they really have now.

So, yes. What she said might have been harsh but all she can think about are the what ifs. If Edie hadn't been so isolated and alone, if she'd had more support, would she still be here? Would they still be a family? Did the family break apart because kids grow up and seasons change or because a precarious situation was massively mishandled?

Her mother doesn't seem to follow that train of thought because she looks straight up repulsed by the comment. ''Laurel!''

It doesn't do a thing to calm the swell of rage. ''They treated her like a radioactive freak. They isolated her for years, cut her off from her family, and we all know how that ended, don't we?''

Mom looks down at her hands. Her fingers skim over the place her wedding band used to be. She looks over at Dad, still looking like she's silently begging him for help. When he gives her nothing, she clears her throat and says, with a barely noticeable wince, ''Actually, Laurel, you don't. Edie didn't kill herself.''

''Di,'' Dad's voice is so soft Laurel can barely hear him. ''What are you talking about?''

''She didn't kill herself,'' she says again. It sounds like she's having trouble getting the words out. ''That's just what Valerie chose to tell people. She didn't want to create panic.''

Laurel is officially getting a headache. A migraine, actually. She can feel it coming on. There is only so much she can take. ''Why would there be panic?''

''Because she was hunted.'' It's Dean who says it, quiet but matter of fact. Laurel turns to him but he is pointedly not looking at her. His eyes are on her mother. The expression on his face is caught somewhere between stony professionalism and resignation. ''Edie was killed by a hunter,'' he says, ''wasn't she?''

Laurel isn't sure if it's the words or the strange tone of voice he's using but her entire body goes ice cold when he says that.

Mom squares her shoulders at the accusation but doesn't bother to deny it. ''She left the house. She knew she wasn't supposed to but she wanted to buy Christmas presents to send to her brothers so she went to the mall and she... She got overwhelmed. The scream - It just came out and - ''

''The building collapsed,'' Dad finishes. ''I remember that. It was all over the news. Dinah, people died that day. A lot of people.''

''They never did figure out what caused the collapse, did they?'' Dean asks conversationally. ''They thought it was a bomb. Then they tried blaming it on shifting soil and an unstable foundation. A sinkhole. An earthquake. Tunneling below. Nothing concrete. Which means it was just another freak accident with mass casualties. The exact kind of thing that brings a hunter to town.''

''Hunters should mind their own business,'' Mom spits out venomously. ''Stick to cursed objects and haunted houses. This kind of thing is way above their paygrade. They're too simple to understand this. Edie was a scared kid.''

''A scared kid who killed fourteen people,'' Dean fires back.

Her eyes darken with fury. ''So that means she deserved to die?''

''I never said that. All I'm saying is that she wasn't entirely innocent.''

''But she was a person,'' her voice trembles. ''She had a family. She was twenty one years old,'' she says thickly. ''She should have been given mercy. But you hunters...'' She curls her lips into a cruel, mocking sneer. ''You cowardly, small men running around with your delusions of righteousness, so quick to believe the murders you commit are somehow justified because your victims weren't quite normal. Whatever that is. You're not known for your mercy, are you?'' She takes a few slow, somehow threatening steps in his direction. ''Especially you, Dean Winchester. Son of John Winchester. Tell me, do you really think you can save the world by killing every person who doesn't fit into your pathetically narrow minded worldview?''

And that's when Laurel snaps.

She feels like she should be more surprised that her mother apparently knows all about the supernatural world but given everything else she's just learned about her mother and her secrets, that's pretty low on the list of shocking things. What she's stuck on is the way she's attacking Dean. She steps in between the two, reaching out to grasp her mother's wrist tightly. ''I seem to remember warning you to watch your tone when speaking to my husband,'' she hisses, leaning in close. ''If you keep attacking him, I might just start screaming myself and I don't think anyone wants that.''

Mom rears back, stunned. She looks wounded. Laurel ignores that completely and whirls back around to face Dean. He looks rattled. She doesn't know it's because of her mother's words or hers, but she instinctively feels the need to fix it. She only gets about two steps before she hears her father's voice.

''How do you know so much about the building collapse?''

She stops. The question hangs there in the air between them. Dean closes his eyes briefly, jaw ticking nervously, shoulder slumping. She recognizes that body language. He tries so hard to be some stoic, hard to read badass but she knows all his tells. She knows him inside and out, better than she knows herself. Or at least she thought she did. He opens his eyes and looks right at her. Just like that she knows why her mother has hated him for all these years.

''No.'' She shakes her head, trying her hardest to cling to denial. ''No. No, no, it wasn't you. Tell me it wasn't you.''

When he speaks, his voice is something she hardly recognizes. She hasn't heard it since 2010. ''I was doing what I was told.''

''Yes,'' her mother says from behind her. ''You were good at that from what I've heard. You were your daddy's sharpest knife. What a hollow little thing you must've been inside.'' Her voice is gentle but cruel, dripping with disdain and disgust. ''I remembered you, Dean. I remembered you the second I met you. You think this has all been about social status? Your personality? The age difference? I don't care about any of that. I don't want you around my daughter because I don't want to get a phone call one day telling me you've slit her throat the way you slit my niece's.''

''Dinah,'' Dad says, uncharacteristically calm and even. ''I think you need to stop talking now.'' There is cold rage in his eyes when he turns to Dean and he's inching closer to Laurel like he's getting ready to shove her behind him for safekeeping. ''You killed Edie?''

''I was there,'' Dean says. ''Aberdeen, Washington. December, 2000. That was my father's case. Mysterious building collapse. Multiple witnesses reported hearing a painful scream-like noise before the building went down. Dad was sure it was a banshee. But I did not kill her.'' He says the last part so desperately.

''You're lying,'' Mom snarls.

He doesn't even give her a second glance. ''Laur,'' he pleads. ''Laurel, please.'' He reaches out, latching onto her wrist, and...and she flinches. She doesn't mean to. She's not... Her mother is trying to sway her. This is fearmongering. She knows that. She will not be afraid of her own husband. It's just that this isn't how she expected to spend her night. This isn't what she expected to learn. She thought this would be different. She didn't think it would be like this. He looks devastated when she flinches away from his touch. He tries to cover it up, quickly letting go of her and taking a few steps back to respect her space, but she sees it. ''Your mother can believe what she wants,'' he says. ''You know I don't care what she thinks. I need you to know the truth. I didn't kill her. My father - He was the one who - ''

''Killed some girl because he thought she was - what? A monster?'' Dad growls out. ''He didn't even know what she was. Was helping her ever an option? Do you people not fact check before you start shooting?'' He's placed himself in front of Laurel now, like a wall, blocking Dean from getting to her.

Dean looks like he's about to spiral. He's trying to look at Laurel and only Laurel but her father is in the way and he's trying to come up with something to say but her parents keep talking over him. She wants to say something to him before this gets out of hand but her voice won't work. She tries. By the time she manages to get a quick rasp of his name out, it's too late.

That's the thing about conditioning: it never goes away. It's something that is always inside of you, waiting.

She can literally feel the moment he switches. It's like the air gets thicker, electrified with some awful thing, and then she's watching him crawl back into that spot where he feels safe, where he feels like he can take on the world. In one quick instant, he goes from Dean Winchester, her husband and Mary's father to #1 Soldier, Daddy's Blunt Little Instrument. His posture straightens into this military-esque pose, his lips tighten, his eyes darken, even his voice is rougher. If John walked in right now, he would be looking at the same kid he left broken.

''My father made the decisions,'' he says in that same eerie, forced voice. ''Maybe sometimes he made the wrong call, but he was the one in charge. I didn't question my orders. It wasn't my place.''

''Your - '' Dad stares at him, mystified. He takes a step back. Small mercies. ''Your _orders_?'' There is almost an undercurrent of pity to his voice.

''I did what he told me to do,'' Dean says quietly. ''I followed the orders he gave me. I didn't slit anyone's throat.''

Laurel has never had the pleasure of meeting John Winchester face to face but she is Dean's wife. She is the one who has to live with the ghost of him. She knows what remains of him in the scars left behind. Dean may not love to talk about his father but back when they were going to couples counselling, of course parental issues were going to pop up. They needed to understand each other. What Laurel understands now is that if John led the charge back in 2000 then Dean wouldn't have had many options. Back then, he followed orders. Simple as that. Sure, he was an adult and could have removed himself from the situation but it's never that simple. It's not easy to walk away when there is nothing to way to. Abuse is not a clear line in the sand. He probably didn't even know that he wasn't hunting a banshee.

She doesn't think that necessarily excuses his actions but this is not the black and white situation Mom seems to want it to be. To place all the blame on Dean, one singular part of the terrible equation is foolish and willfully ignorant.

''That's enough.'' She steps out from behind her father. ''That's enough. I don't need to hear anymore.'' She moves back over to Dean and uses every bit of her fast fading energy to keep her voice even as she says, ''I need you to wait outside for me.''

He blinks, slips, and tumbles out of Solider Mode. ''Laur - ''

''Dean,'' she lowers her voice. ''You need to get some air.''

She knows he takes it as a rejection. She can see instantly that he thinks she's taking her mother's side. Still, he doesn't even argue. He looks like he wants to, but he doesn't. He looks at her, then her parents, and then he just silently accepts the dismissal. She shuts her eyes, guilt rising in her chest. She's going to need to fix that. There's something she needs to do first. She waits until he's out the door, front door clicking shut behind him, gives it a few more seconds for him to get down the front path, and then she slowly turns around to face her parents.

''I want you to listen to me,'' it's like this low, warning hiss, ''and I want you to listen to me good. You do not get to speak to my husband like that. Not ever. Am I making myself clear?'' She doesn't wait for an answer. ''I am sorry about Edie. I loved her too. She deserved better. But you don't get to place all the blame on Dean because that is not fair. You keep saying Edie was a scared kid - well, guess what? He was the same age as her and trust me, he was just as scared. I may not be able to stop you from being angry with him but you know nothing about what kind of situation he was in back then. You have no idea what John was like. And why the hell are you bringing all this up now?'' She hasn't looked away from her mother once during her tirade. Her mother looks a little intimidated. ''It's been six and a half years. If you were really worried about my safety, you would have told me everything as soon as you recognized him but you didn't.''

''I didn't think you would believe me,'' Mom tries weakly. It's a pathetic attempt.

''Bullshit,'' Laurel snaps. ''You just liked having someone around to blame. Like it or not, Edie killed fourteen people. Maybe she didn't mean to but she was still responsible for their deaths. Maybe instead of forgiving one scared kid and condemning another, you should admit that there's more than enough blame to go around. And you know what else? Do not think for one second that I don't realize the only reason you're telling me all this crap about Edie and how she died is because you want to take the heat off yourself for all the lies.''

The entire time Laurel has been here, her mother has been all about excuses. Desperate explanations and half assed apologies are all she's given, excuses piled on top of excuses, trying to reason away her lies. She wants them to understand why she did what she did, she wants them to forgive her, but she has never looked truly scared about the possibility of being denied that forgiveness. Until now. Something about Laurel's voice or the look in her eyes, the finality of it all, seems to visibly spook her. It's like she's just realized that there's a possibility that she's just lost her husband and her daughter. ''Laurel.'' She looks pale. She steps over into her space to grab her hands. ''Sweetie, please, please just - ''

Laurel tugs her hands out of her grasp and steps back. ''Don't touch me,'' her voice is hard, unforgiving. ''You lied to me for my entire life. You kept information about what's essentially a genetic mutation from me for years. I passed this down to my daughter and I didn't even know it. That's not going to go away. Do you get that? It's not going to go away.''

''I know,'' Mom chokes out. There are tears gathering in her eyes and she looks like she so badly wants to reach out and touch her to keep her here but she doesn't. ''I'm sorry.''

Laurel blinks, trying as hard as she can to push the tears back. ''What does that mean?'' She manages to get out. ''What does that give me?''

Her mother cannot answer that question. She brings both hands up to her mouth to stifle her sobs but she can't give Laurel an answer.

Laurel looks over at her father, still trying to keep it together. ''Daddy,'' her voice softens. ''I'm sorry you got dragged into this.''

He shakes his head. ''Don't be sorry,'' he assures her. ''I needed to know.''

''Are you okay here? We can give you a ride back home if you - ''

''I'll be fine here for tonight,'' he says abruptly. ''I think it's time your mother and I had an honest conversation.'' He throws an unimpressed look in Mom's direction. ''For once.''

Laurel manages a quick nod, closing the distance to give him a hug. ''I'm sorry I ruined your night,'' she murmurs.

''You didn't ruin anything,'' he whispers in her ear. ''None of this is your fault.'' He drops a kiss to the top of her head, and she feels tears pricking at her eyes. ''I'm so sorry this is happening, sweetheart.''

She closes her eyes until she can manage to push the tears away. ''Me too.'' She pulls away reluctantly. ''I'll call you tomorrow.'' She tries not to look at her mother when she turns to leave, but she catches sight of her standing there, crying, helpless. It makes her heart plummet into her gut. But it doesn't make her stay. She hesitates for barely a second, then she turns, and walks away. She doesn't look back.

When she steps out into the cold night air, all of her composure and energy just drains out of her. Very quickly, she feels this wave of unpleasantness slam into her. It's like she can't breathe. She feels like all of her defenses have been stripped away from her, leaving her naked and raw. She feels like she needs to go scream until her lungs give out. That is not something she wants to do. She swallows the scream, barely managing to avoid choking on it. She closes her eyes and tries to remember what Siren said. It's as easy as breathing. She draws in a long deep breath through her nose and lets out a long deep breath through her mouth. She repeats this action three more times until the scream in her throat goes away.

She stands there in the chilly breeze, numb and tired. She has no idea where to go from here. She thought finally getting answers would help. She thought it would give her a direction to go in. She thought it would make at least one part of this nonsensical mess make sense. That's not what's happening. All she has now is more questions. She feels like she's just been left with nothing but anger and a brand new sense of loss. And she's so exhausted.

Then she spots him.

Dean is standing over by the car, leaning back against the driver's side, head down, back to her. She looks at the back of his head for a minute, at the heaviness of his shoulders, and that's when she starts to cry. It's kind of pathetic that that's the line but just seeing him standing there cuts away at her. It shouldn't. It's just Dean. There is no one else on earth she's more comfortable around. He's her husband. The love of her life. The father of her daughter.

The man who had a hand in her cousin's murder.

What is she supposed to do with that? What's the right way to feel? Should she feel angry? Is she a hypocrite if the main emotion she's feeling right now is sadness for Edie _and_ for Dean? Is she betraying Edie if she's worried mostly for Dean? Her mother had no right to bring up what happened sixteen years ago. It was classic deflection and all it did was cause a lot of hurt.

Dean has told her about his past. Maybe not everything but she knows he's told her more than he's told any other partner. She's aware that he's done some unsavory things. She has known from the beginning that he has blood on his hands. She still chose to let him into her life. She still chose to marry him, have a child with him, and build a life with him. She is not going to question her entire life because of something he did when he was twenty-one and Daddy's Little Soldier.

She knows who he is. That's enough.

She blinks and wipes at her eyes to get rid of any trace of her tears. She can't let him see that she's been crying. He's already had a bad enough night. She doesn't want to add to his guilt. She rakes her hands through her hair, still standing frozen on the front steps. Then she takes in a deep breath and gets it together. She hurries down front path towards him. She can tell by the way his shoulder tense almost unnoticeably that he's heard her coming but he doesn't look up. Even when she steps off the curb and moves to stand next to him so close their shoulders touch, he doesn't look up at her. She leans back against the Impala. She wants to take his hand. She doesn't.

''This doesn't change anything,'' she says, though she knows it's a lie.

He looks up at her. There are shadows in his eyes. She recognizes those shadows. There was a time when she spent more time with them than with the real him. ''Yes,'' he says, ''it does. I killed your cousin.''

''Your father killed my cousin,'' she clarifies. ''You were just following orders.'' That doesn't make it better. They both know that. ''Did you know when you met me that I was connected to her?''

''No. Not until tonight. I know you've talked about her before but it's a common name and it's not like - Her last name was different.'' He sighs and tilts his head up to look at the stars in the sky. ''I didn't know.''

She taught him the constellations. She remembers this. They were on the fire escape of her old apartment; that old rent controlled apartment that she had lived in for nearly a decade, the place where Mary was born, where Tommy lived with them, the place where they fell in love. They were both drinking that night - wine for her, beer for him - because this was before sobriety, back when they were both pretending there was no problem.

The night Laurel pointed out the constellations to Dean was ten days after he had reluctantly agreed to stay with her for two weeks. It was less than three months after they had met. Three months before the night she told him she loved him and he didn't say it back. Seven months before her appendix burst and he took her to the emergency room in the middle of the night. Seven months before he told her he loved her for the first time while she was doped up on drugs and he thought she couldn't hear him.

It's funny. The things you think about.

She kissed him that night, on the fire escape. It was the first time since Seattle. She made the first move. She remembers that too. Both in Seattle and sitting on that fire escape. She kissed him in Seattle because her entire body felt like it was humming with adrenaline and because she was shivering and wet from the rain and wanted someone to warm her up. She kissed him on the fire escape because she did not want him to leave.

She's wondered over the years what he would say if she told him that she basically manipulated him into staying with her by using sex, but she's never been able to tell him. He never did leave. He just moved from the couch to her bed. Not after the two weeks were up and not after the six weeks it took for his shoulder to heal fully. Just like that he went from a weekend hook up to a temporary roommate with benefits to her live in boyfriend.

She looks over at him, studying his profile. Her mother can unearth secret after secret, pin Edie's death entirely on Dean, and Laurel will still choose him. She hopes he knows that.

''Her last name was Hart,'' Dean says. ''Edith Nadine Hart.''

She looks at him in surprise. ''You remember her name?''

There's a beat of silence and then he looks away from the stars. ''I remember all of their names.'' He says it so hollowly. ''I'm sorry. I swear, I would've told you if I - ''

''Dean,'' she interrupts gently. ''Stop it. I know.'' She places a hand on his arm. ''I knew when we first got together that - ''

''No,'' he cuts her off. ''Don't. You couldn't have... You didn't sign up for this.''

''And you didn't sign up to be a widower,'' she reminds him. ''We both have things to be sorry for.''

He lets out a breath. She can tell that he's restraining himself from telling her that it's not the same. She loops her arm through his and laces their fingers together, watching him closely. There are so many questions she wants to ask about what happened in December of 2000 but she's not sure he's up for that right now.

''I gave my father her address.'' The confession is said softly and abruptly.

She tries to swallow but her mouth is too dry. ''What?''

''I was the one who told him where to find her,'' he says. ''I may not have slit her throat myself but I'm just as responsible for her death.''

She still does not let go of his hand. ''What happened that day?''

He looks uncomfortable. ''She...'' He clears his throat. ''She was the odd one out. We'd already identified all the victims and talked to all the survivors and witnesses, but she was the only one we couldn't track down. We found her name from a gift receipt. We didn't know for sure that it was her but we wanted to talk to her. We couldn't dig up an address but we tracked down her parents' address so Sam and I went to Tacoma to talk to her family and Dad stayed in Aberdeen. I remember her parents weren't home but I talked to her aunt. That must've been - ''

''My mother,'' she says with a nod.

''I don't know how I've never...'' He frowns. ''She looked...different.''

She's not surprised by that. ''That would've been back before she started dyeing her hair dark and straightening it.'' Also before she went through the loss of a child and a divorce. No doubt she looked different back then. Loss is like a scar. ''She would have looked a lot different.''

''I still should have recognized her.''

''Why?'' She raises an eyebrow. ''It's not like you two are close.''

''I... I told her I was a friend of Edie's,'' he looks down at the ground. ''I said I hadn't heard from her in a few days and I was worried and wanted to get in touch with her.'' He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. ''Must've tipped her off. She didn't tell me anything, but it didn't matter. Sam had already snuck into the house while we were talking and stole Valerie's datebook. As soon as I found Edie's address, I called Dad and gave it to him. When we got back to Aberdeen, he told us the banshee was dead and it was over. I never questioned him. Never even thought about it.'' He shrugs his shoulders helplessly. ''It was just another case. We didn't talk about them when we were done. We just moved onto the next.''

''Dean...''

''I want to tell you that if I had known she was just a girl, I would've done something different but I don't... I don't know what I would've done.'' He sounds incredibly ashamed of that. ''It wasn't like I had anywhere to run to. He was all I had.''

''I know,'' she whispers, squeezing his hand. ''You were just as isolated as she was.''

''This isn't something you can forgive.'' He says that like he's already decided for her.

She pulls her hand out of his and steps in front of him, forcing him to look at her. ''I don't think you get to decide what I can and cannot forgive.''

''Laur - ''

''I can't absolve you, Dean.'' She inches into his space, hands grasping at his jacket. ''I can't take this from you. I wish I could, but I can't. But I won't crucify you either. You are not the villain of this story. You were doing what you had been taught to do.'' He doesn't look convinced and his entire being from his posture to his expression seems defeated. ''I can't force you to stop carrying this with you,'' she says, ''but I will _not_ add to your guilt.''

Cautiously, she reaches her hand out and lays her palm flat against his cheek. He looks oddly stunned by the gesture, as if he is somehow undeserving of her gentleness. His breath noticeably hitches and then he just melts, leaning into her touch without hesitance. She knows this. They've been here before.

''I forgive you,'' she tells him, because it really is that simple. At least to her. This is a choice that she is making. Nobody will take that from her. Not even him and his never ending need to carry everything. ''I'll give you that,'' she whispers, ''even if you won't take it. I love you. Okay?'' She leans in close to rest her forehead against his. ''I love you,'' she says again. ''We'll be okay.''

He nods jerkily, releasing a small, shuddering breath. She curls one hand around the back of his neck and drags him in for a hug. He caves immediately and hugs her back, winding his arms around her tightly and burying his face in her hair. The tremor in his left hand is acting up. ''I'm still right here,'' she says, just because she needs to say it and she needs him to _hear_ it. ''I'm still with you.''

.

.

.

 **July, 2010**

 _This is not how she thought her life was going to go._

 _When she was younger - killing herself to get top grades, taking the Adderall that she bought from some guy named Chad to focus and the Xanax prescribed to her by her GP to calm down from the constant panic and pressure - she used to picture her future and it looked nothing like this._

 _Back when she was young and dumb, too naive to plot out her future but too stubborn to leave it all unplanned, she thought she had it all figured out. She was supposed to be engaged to Oliver by now, working in environmental law, living in a high rise condo downtown where she and Ollie hosted wine and cheese parties and dinners for their families, and maybe there would even be a cat. They would have a long engagement, long enough for him to get all that wandering eye bullshit out of his system and grow up, and then they would be married by twenty-seven. They would buy a house in one of the upscale but not too snobby suburbs in Starling, get a dog, and then somewhere ideally between the ages of thirty-two to thirty-five they would have one or two kids. She had even started looking at schools to enroll their future children in because the best ones fill up in an instant and their waiting lists are like years long so sometimes you need to plan ahead._

 _That was the plan._

 _That was the life she was supposed to be living._

 _Instead, she's...here._

 _Wherever here is._

 _She's twenty-five, single, living in the same apartment she's been in since she was nineteen, working as a waitress because her chosen profession is highly competitive and there are no jobs for a young female lawyer in this city unless she wants to sacrifice all her morals or risk everything to open up that nonprofit that Joanna's been talking about, and she is so lonely that sometimes she feels like she's choking on it._

 _And - oh yeah. Her two night stand from May showed up on her doorstep less than a week ago clawed all to hell, with a messed up shoulder, a bruised knee, completely delirious with fever._

 _At least her apartment is rent controlled._

 _That's a plus._

 _In the hospital parking garage, Laurel allows herself a few moments of peace and quiet in her car to take a breather. She has been on her feet all day long and everyone in her life is currently under the impression that she is having a full blown nervous breakdown because she's letting some stranger into her life like it's no big deal. She has waved off their increasing concern over the past few days and she's mostly avoided seeing them in person in fear they might try to stage an intervention, but truthfully... She does understand their concerns._

 _She doesn't know what the hell she's doing with this guy. She barely knows him. They spent one weekend together in May. They do not have a relationship. She still hasn't entirely worked through what happened that weekend, honestly. It's not even the werewolf pack part that has sent her into a tailspin. She thinks she handled the existence of the supernatural world and the subsequent near death experience quite well if she does say so herself. I mean, she's had a few panic attacks over the past month or so and the nightmares haven't quite subsided but she feels like that's to be expected._

 _It's the sex part that she is still trying to come to terms with. She does not have casual sex. It's not something she judges. She's not against it. It's just never happened before. Everyone she's ever had sex with she has loved in one way or another. This is uncharted territory._

 _If she's being honest with herself, it's not just about the casual nature of the sex. It's - Well. She's never had sex like that before. It might be a bit hasty to label it the best sex of her life but... No, actually, you know what? It was. It definitely was. Maybe it was the adrenaline. When you think you're going to die and then you don't die, the rush of adrenaline that follows is intoxicating. It was like her whole body was electrified._

 _Laurel groans and flops back against the seat, covering her face with her hands. She can't believe she's playing nursemaid to a drifter just because he gave her multiple orgasms. That's so messed up. You don't change your entire life around for some random dude off the street just because he spent a weekend fucking your brains out. That's unhealthy._

 _It's official: she is a mess. She is a hot mess. She is a disaster of a human being._

 _Maybe she does need an intervention._

 _She heaves a sigh. She turns off the air conditioning, which had been running at full blast, and kills the engine. She reaches over to grab her purse and the tote bag from the passenger seat. Whatever. Regardless of her questionable reasons for doing this, she has another shift in two hours and she wants to bring Dean some fresh clothes and some company before she has to go back to work. She may not know him all that well but she knows that he came to her when he was bleeding and that he deserves not to be alone right now. She is willing to take on that responsibility._

 _It's not about the sex. That's the part she is not ready to admit to herself. It's a convenient excuse but that's not why she's doing this. That's not why she's letting him in. There is something broken in him just like there's something broken in her, and Laurel Lance has always had a habit of collecting broken things._

 _She collects them like some people collect coins. She invites the brokenness in, fixes them up the best she can, and hopes that one day, while she's working on someone else, she'll stumble across some magical way to fix herself. Sometimes she wonders if all seemingly selfless people are hiding motives like that. Is kindness really just selfishness in disguise? Is everyone in the world broken?_

 _She would love to be able to blame Sara and Oliver for this, for breaking her, giving her a morbid curiosity of human suffering, but she doesn't think it works that way. She was born with something inside of her a little bit mangled. Sometimes she thinks that's why they did what they did. She has wondered, ever since May, if Dean Winchester might be the same as her._

 _The hungry recognize hunger after all._

 _She tries not to think too hard about it as she walks into the hospital. She tries to be positive and upbeat when she's with Dean. He is clearly having a rough time right now. Not just because of the injuries but also because of whatever is going on in his head. She knows he lost his brother, and she knows he's on his own right now. She'd like to rectify that, at least while he's recovering. She doesn't know how long his recovery time is going to be. If they decide his shoulder needs surgery then he's going to be here for awhile and she doesn't want him to be alone for that._

 _Once she gets into the hospital and into the elevator, she starts digging around in her purse, scrounging around for her wallet. Maybe she should have smuggled in some food. He's been complaining about the bland hospital food. She should have grabbed something from the restaurant before she left or stopped at Big Belly Burgers. She steps off the elevator, still rifling around in her purse. Money is tight this month but she thinks she might be able to afford a couple burgers. She just wants to drop him off these clothes and then she's going to get him some food. She glances up as she approaches the nurses' desk and has to stop short to narrowly avoid running into Claudia, the head nurse. ''Sorry,'' she manages a tired smile. ''Guess you can tell I've had a rough day.''_

 _''Laurel?'' Claudia looks surprised to see her. Weird given that she's been here every day for the past five days. ''What are you doing here?''_

 _Laurel forgets all about digging for her wallet. ''Oh, you know. Just here to get my daily dose of charm. Unless he's in more of a grouchy mood tonight.''_

 _Claudia's expression goes from confused to sympathetic. ''Oh, honey, Dean's not here. He left about twenty minutes ago.''_

 _Laurel's jaw goes slack. ''He...'' A nervous laugh tumbles out of her lips. ''What? No. No, he couldn't have. He still had at least another day here.''_

 _''He should have,'' Claudia agrees, ''but that boy is stubborn as a mule. I tried to talk some sense into him but he wasn't having it.''_

 _''So he just left?''_

 _''Signed the AMA and everything.''_

 _Laurel clutches the straps of her purse with numb fingers. Oh. Okay. So that's it then. He's gone. Probably halfway out of the city already. She doesn't know why she's so hurt. This was always how this was going to end. Even if he had agreed to stay with her while he recovered, he would have just left in the end. Maybe this is better. A clean break. Rip the band-aid off. That way there's no time to get attached. Except she's already attached. She has talked more with him in the past five days than she has talked with anyone in years. Which sounds pathetic, but he's good company. He's a good listener. Granted there's a good chance that was the drugs, but it still counts. He has this strangely soothing voice, kind eyes, and he makes her laugh. It has felt so good to laugh again._

 _This is the problem with collecting brokenness. Broken people never stay._

 _But really. He couldn't at least have left her a note? A fucking voicemail? What a jerk. ''Wait.'' She looks back up at Claudia. Her apartment is close to the hospital but not within walking distance, especially not when his knee is still a gigantic bruise so he would have had to take a cab and it's rush hour right now. Not to mention, she moved his car into her space in her apartment's underground parking garage because she was nervous about leaving it out on the street and he has no idea which space it's in. ''He left twenty minutes ago?''_

 _Claudia nods. ''About fifteen, twenty minutes ago, yeah.''_

 _A small glimmer of hope sparks in Laurel's chest. She throws out a quick thank you to Claudia, and then takes off. It's a good thing she's an avid jogger. It's also a good thing that she was raised in Starling City because that means she knows how to get back to her place fast despite the rush hour traffic. She takes side streets, avoids all the major intersections and most red lights, and makes it home faster than she ever has before._

 _He's probably drugged to the gills too. He should be at least. If he's not, he's in a world of pain. Either way, he's impaired. He has a fractured shoulder, for God's sake. He should not be driving. She finds a parking spot near the alley, and then she takes off running. Hurt and disappointment have given way to anger by now. What kind of asshole just ups and leaves like that? What kind of idiot even thinks about getting behind the wheel in this condition? She pulls open the gate to the parking garage, makes a beeline for her assigned space, and then she promptly ends up skidding to a halt._

 _She surveys the scene in front of her, trying to regulate her breathing, and then sputters out an incredulous, ''Are you fucking kidding me?''_

 _Dean, who legitimately appears to have gotten stuck in his shirt like a three year old trying to dress himself for the first time, turns in the general direction of her voice. ''Laurel?''_

 _This is the man she ran a red light for. She - a cop's daughter - ran a red light. For this guy._

 _This guy._

 _The one tangled in his own shirt._

 _She pinches the bridge of her nose. It might be time to admit it: her taste in men is questionable at best. ''No,'' she responds sarcastically. ''This is your common sense. We haven't talked in awhile.''_

 _''That's hilarious,'' he mumbles from inside the shirt. ''Can you help me with this?''_

 _She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but drops her bags and moves over to help him with his shirt. It is, admittedly, quite the puzzle with his shoulder injury. They do manage it between the two of them but it's touch and go for a second there. The sling is an obstacle. She's amazed he didn't ditch it as soon as he left the hospital. That seems like the kind of thing he would do. Yet another reason she would like him to stay with her while he recovers. He will not take proper care of himself and even if he doesn't wind up needing surgery now, he will in the future because he refused to let it heal properly._

 _What was even his plan here? Was he planning to wander around shirtless for the four to six weeks he's supposed to keep his arm in this sling? Was he never going to change clothes? How was he planning on showering? How the hell was he going to drive?_

 _''I can't believe you checked yourself out of the hospital,'' she says, peering up at him. She's very close to him right now. She hasn't been this close to him since Seattle. He's paler than he was then. There are dark circles under his eyes. He could use a shave. And maybe a shower. A meal that isn't hospital food and a night of rest in an actual bed. She can give him that. She doesn't know why he's being so stubborn about it._

 _''I'm fine,'' he says, which is a big fat lie._

 _''You're not fine.''_

 _He looks down at her, his eyes seem to slip to her lips, and then he suddenly realizes how close they are and he backs away. ''It's time for me to go.''_

 _She props her hands up on her hips. ''Go where?''_

 _He turns his back to her and goes back to rummaging around in the trunk of his car. ''Somewhere else.''_

 _''You're hurt.''_

 _''Laur, trust me,'' he starts, and she drops her hands to her sides, blushing against her will. Nobody has ever called her 'Laur' before other than him. She doesn't hate it. ''I've had worse.''_

 _''You don't even have a place to stay.''_

 _''What are you talking about?'' He stands straight and whirls around to face her, offended. ''Of course I have a place,'' he says, gesturing towards his car._

 _She raises her eyebrows. ''This is a car.''_

 _He shrugs, unconcerned with that particular truth. ''Only home I've ever known.'' He points towards the backseat. ''This is a bed.'' He waves a hand at the trunk. ''This is a pantry. I've got everything I need. Look!'' With a flourish, he produces a warped looking box of Girl Guide cookies. ''Cookies!'' Then he frowns, tilts his head to the side, and shakes the box. It sounds mostly empty. His frown deepens and he stares down at the box as if he's trying (and possibly failing) to remember the last time he bought Girl Guide cookies. He shakes it off and eventually gives up on trying to remember, tossing the box back into the trunk. ''Oh, hey!'' He grins when he spots something else rolling around in the trunk, reaching in and pulling out a can. ''A beer!'' He cracks open the beer with one hand like it's some kind of reflex, narrowly missing splashing her, and then moves to take a sip._

 _Laurel is not usually quite as reactive as this but as soon as she sees him go to chug the alcohol while on pain meds, she snaps. She slaps the beer out of his hand and watches as it goes crashing to the ground, spilling the contents all over the concrete._

 _Dean has a surprising non-reaction to that. He looks at her, then at the beer spilled on the ground, then back at her, and then he says, completely deadpan, ''That seemed overly aggressive.''_

 _''You're on medication!'' She yelps. ''You can't drink! Or drive. You certainly can't drink and drive. Like, ever.''_

 _He does appear to accept that. ''I can agree with you on that. It's fine. I'll sleep it off.''_

 _''In your car?''_

 _''Wouldn't be the first time.''_

 _''That's ridiculous,'' she says. ''Just come upstairs.''_

 _''No.''_

 _She is about ready to stomp her foot in frustration like a child. Or possibly drag him up to her apartment by his ear._

 _''I've taken up enough of your time,'' he says, slamming the trunk shut. ''I shouldn't be here. You were right when you said it was selfish.''_

 _She grimaces guiltily, looking down at the ground. Yes, okay, she did say that. It was not one of her finer moments. In her defense, she was terrified. Some dude she barely knew had just showed up in the middle of the night, seriously wounded, barely coherent, and refusing to go to the hospital. Terror seemed like a natural response. She finally managed to convince him to let her take him to the emergency room somewhere around seven in the morning but it was a long night. He was in bad shape. It scared her. And it pissed her off. She thought she was watching him die. She didn't think he had a right to make her watch that._

 _''How dare you come to me to die,'' she'd muttered to him, while she was changing the bloody bandages for the second time in an hour. ''I don't care if it's what you want, you selfish asshole.''_

 _She hadn't meant for him to hear that. She thought he was passed out._

 _''I said that because I was scared,'' she says. ''You showed up on my doorstep half dead.''_

 _''I know,'' he sighs. ''I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have come here.''_

 _''No,'' she agrees. ''But you did. You can't take that back now.''_

 _He looks positively flabbergasted that she's refusing to give up on him. ''I am not a good man, Laurel,'' he tries. ''I'm not someone you want hanging around.''_

 _He may have a point there. His life is light years away from anything she has ever been involved with. It's horrifying and it's dangerous. Problem is she is just as stubborn as he is and she has made up her mind. ''This may shock you,'' she drawls, ''but I am the one who gets to decide who I want hanging around me. I happen to think it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to spend time with you.'' She smiles at him when she says that, and hopes it's disarming enough. ''I don't believe you're a bad person,'' she says honestly. ''Maybe bad things have happened to you, but that doesn't make you bad.''_

 _That one seems to stump him. There's something in his eyes when she says that. He looks like he so badly wants to agree with her, to give in and stay. ''You don't even know me.''_

 _''I know you saved my life.''_

 _''Just another Friday night for me,'' he mutters. ''You can't invite every one night stand to come live with you. That's highly irresponsible.''_

 _''Um, excuse me?'' She puts one hand on her hip and holds the other up, making sure to look as offended as possible. ''It was two nights.''_

 _That actually gets a laugh out of him. He has a nice smile. She's noticed that. She hasn't had the chance to see much of it, but it definitely makes her stomach flip flop a little when she sees it. She is not expecting anything from him. Maybe she should have led with that. She doesn't believe that if he stays they will somehow fall in love and live happily ever after. That's unrealistic. That kind of thing would never happen. Not in this lifetime. Not matter what happens here, he is going to leave her. She's okay with that. She'll have to be okay with that. That doesn't mean she shouldn't try to do the right thing here._

 _''I'm not asking you to marry me,'' she says, tossing him a halfhearted smirk. ''I don't think we're going to have some epic love story. I'm not trying to pull a rom-com. I just want you to be comfortable while you rest and get better. Especially if your shoulder winds up needing surgery.''_

 _Dean slumps back against the back bumper of his car and rubs at his temple with his good hand. She can tell by the way he's moving gingerly and the tension in his body language that he's in pain. That's why she doesn't understand his refusal. She's offering him a safe haven. Why won't he take it?_

 _Part of her is beginning to wonder if he's afraid of her. Is this so rare? It's like she's offering him kindness and he's looking for a knife._

 _''Look,'' he glances down at the car keys in his hand. ''I'm not asking you for anything.''_

 _She throws her arms out, frustrated. ''Then ask me for something!''_

 _He doesn't. He looks up at her, meets her eyes for less than a second, and then looks away, clenching his jaw. He's not going to say anything. He's not going to ask._

 _She knows she's getting desperate. She hardly knows this guy and yet she's fighting tooth and nail to get him to come home with her. She is aware that might seem a bit Kathy Bates in Misery. She just has this feeling about him. He's in a lot of pain - and she is not talking about physical pain. The loss of his brother is something recent. She knows that, and she knows what loss can do. She is not his keeper. Not his family or his girlfriend. She's not even sure if she qualifies as his friend. She just can't help but think that if she lets him go, she'll never see him again. She's worried that he won't escape his next hunt with a fractured shoulder, a sore knee, and infected claw marks. She's worried he won't escape at all. She doesn't want that to happen._

 _Even if she never sees him again after this, she wants to be able to know that he's still out there, alive, fighting. She wants him to make it through this. If he makes it through this, maybe that means she can too._

 _''Okay,'' she says quietly. ''Then let me ask you for something. I'm asking you to stay with me. Not forever,'' she adds on quickly when she sees him start to object. ''Just while you heal. You need somewhere to go. You need a bed. You need a home.'' She steps into his space, careful to go slow in case he wants her to stop. ''I am asking you to come home.'' She chews on her lip nervously and then places a hand on his cheek softly. It's a small gesture, mostly meant to force him to look at her. She doesn't expect it to feel quite as intimate as it does. ''You need help, Dean,'' she tells him. ''I'm here. Let me be here.''_

 _He seems dumbfounded by the softness of her touch at first, blinking, startled by the comfort. He looks like he's trying so hard not to lean into her touch, but he loses that fight._

 _''Take what you need,'' she offers, ''and I'll give you what I can.''_

 _The look on his face almost makes her want to cry. ''Why are you doing this?''_

 _''Because it's the right thing to do,'' is her instant response. She doesn't even have to think about it. ''Also, I've been told I have a bleeding heart.'' Her hand has started to trail down his cheek to his neck. She has to take a step back. They're too close. She doesn't know what to do with the way he's looking at her. This is an act of kindness and friendship. The last thing she needs right now is to be in some kind of weird relationship with a demon hunter. Her life is already chaotic enough._

 _He stands straight, towering over her. ''I can't stay for long.''_

 _''Well,'' she clears her throat, folding her arms over her chest. ''The sling needs to stay on for four to six weeks so...''_

 _''I can do two,'' he says. ''That's all I can give you.''_

 _That's useless. What good is two weeks? ''Okay,'' she nods. ''Two weeks it is then.''_

 _''Two weeks,'' he agrees, ''and then I'll be out of your hair for good.''_

 _She is going to have to work on that last part. ''Deal,'' she says, holding out her hand for him to take._

 _He hesitates, just for one minute, and then he reaches out and takes her hand._

.

.

.

November, 2016

The drive back to Star Labs is quiet.

Laurel keeps one hand on her husband's knee and dissects her entire childhood in her head. It was right there. It was all right there in front of her all this time and she missed it. How could she miss it? Where was she?

She looks out the window, watching as the city lights zoom past, and listens to the low hum of the radio. She tries to block it out, tries to save the regret and the anger for tomorrow, but she can't. Her entire childhood is literally crumbling apart in her head. So much makes sense now. All these little oddities, all these Drake family quirks - they were never innocent. They mean something else now.

She walked on eggshells for her whole life and she didn't even realize she was doing it. She's been a time bomb since the day she was born, and she couldn't even hear the ticking. It's humiliating in a way. She feels like she's been duped. It's not her fault, she knows that, but her entire family knew something about her that she didn't. They all looked at her and they could see it. She must have looked so naive to them. And not one of them said a word to her.

There's something violating about that.

It's not just the giant family secret that's hanging over her head either. It's what happened to Edie. It's Dean's part in it.

When Grandpa died, it wasn't sudden. He was in his eighties and he had stage four colon cancer. It was a waiting game. She remembers the night he died. There are some parts of it that are a little blurry. She was pregnant, hormonal, and hysterical. She wasn't at her best. But she remembers most of it. She remembers spending all that time in the hospital, in and out of his room, waiting for him to die. It was her, Grandma, Mom, Dean, the aunts, and her cousin Jackson and his husband. It was a long, traumatic night and everyone was devastated and thoroughly exhausted so she didn't think anything of it when Aunt Valerie refused to acknowledge Dean's presence. She didn't notice when the same thing happened at the funeral either. Or the wake. Or even years later when Grandma died. It just slipped right past her.

She was grieving, inconsolable both times, and Dean's focus was mostly on her so she missed the snub. Not to mention, Val has always been a little spacey and she never really recovered after Edie died so it was easy to miss the snub. Laurel just thought it was par for the course with her. But that wasn't what it was. It wasn't grief.

Everything was right in front of her from the very beginning. She can't believe she missed it.

''Maybe we should get a motel room for the night,'' says Dean, just as they're pulling into the Star Labs parking lot. ''It's been a shit night. You must be tired.''

''I'd rather just get home,'' she says quietly. ''I want to get back to Mary as soon as possible.''

He doesn't argue. ''Yeah,'' he mutters. ''Me too.'' He pulls the keys out of the ignition and turns his attention to her, taking a long look at her. ''How are you feeling?''

Not ready to go there just yet. That's how. ''Honestly? Kind of hungry.'' Which, to be fair, is true. She has had zero appetite all day long and now she's suddenly famished. She's going to roll with it. She could probably stand to eat something. She can't even remember what she's eaten today. She thinks she might've had a yogurt this morning and a granola bar on the drive here but other than that she doesn't think she's had anything. She's not even sure she's had much water. She should really work on that.

The look of surprise on Dean's face lasts about three seconds and then he just looks absurdly ecstatic. It's sort of adorable. ''Really?''

She nods. ''I'm starving. I think being mad at my mother makes me hungry.''

''Way to find a silver lining,'' he chuckles. ''All right, we'll grab something to eat when we're done here. Hope you're okay with fast food. I'd take you out on the town but you're a famous dead person. I'm thinkin' Laurel Lance being spotted at some Central City steakhouse alive and well might invite some questions into our lives.''

''I don't like steak,'' she points out. ''And,'' she wrinkles her nose, ''I'm not famous.''

''You literally have a statue.''

''Ugh.'' She rolls her eyes. ''Why do people keep bringing up that stupid statue?'' She's sure Ollie had good intentions when he had that thing commissioned and she knows grief had a hand in it but erecting a statue of her was a poorly thought out decision. Also, it is godawful. She's never seen the thing in person because she's been on house arrest since coming home but she's googled it and it is...not good. ''It's being taken down next Friday anyway,'' she mumbles. ''It doesn't even count.''

''Babe,'' Dean says seriously. ''You have your own Wikipedia page.''

''Lots of people have their own Wikipedia pages.''

''Yeah, lots of _famous people_.''

''I'm not famous.''

''People dressed up like you at Comic Con,'' he says. ''There are comic books about you. There's an action figure. You have fanpages on almost every social media outlet. There's street art of you from here to New York. This one mural in Brooklyn went viral. People write fanfiction about you. Your Instagram account is _verified_. You have almost half a million followers. Plus, Fox News really hates you so that's how you know you've made it big.''

She blinks, stunned. Now that... That she didn't know. She knew about the comics and the fanpages because all of that was brought to her attention long before April. She was told that there were tumblr blogs and twitter accounts dedicated to Black Canary just a few months after she first put on the mask. There are blogs and comics and various forms of merchandise dedicated to all the vigilantes. Apparently they're quite profitable. She even knew about the fanfiction. She just decided it was best to shield Dean from it because a lot of the ones involving her were Green Arrow/Black Canary smut and she didn't think her husband - of all people - needed to see that particular kind of, um, creativity.

She's even been made aware that she, Laurel Lance, is a known figure in Star City these days. One of the first things Thea talked to her about after she came back was what they were going to have to do in order for her to resume a somewhat normal life. Thea had advised her that they would have to make a public announcement of her return, come up with a cover story for her being alive, and then immediately create a media storm in order to get ahead of any possible arrest warrants or indictments. Late night talk shows and ''cultivating a social media presence'' were both mentioned.

Thea is _really_ good at her job.

But the other things - Comic Con, action figures, street art, Fox News, a verified Instagram - are news to her. The last time she checked her Instagram account was Valentine's Day when they'd gotten stuck in traffic on their way home from dinner and she'd wound up posting a #V-Day selfie because she was bored. She'd had fifteen followers. To go from fifteen followers to half a million is quite a leap. She didn't even want an Instagram! Tommy and Joanna made her get one because they thought she was too boring social media wise and because they had failed all their attempts to get Dean to ''at least make a Facebook, it's 2013.''

She's never been big on social media. She had a Facebook for a couple years but barely used it. She has a private Snapchat account not because she wanted it but because Thea introduced Mary to it and Mary found the filters hilarious. Social media is nice in some ways, sure, but she finds it too distracting and she prefers a more private life. She's not sure how she feels about the fact that half a million people have now seen her workout selfies and pictures of her husband and child. She was hardly a frequent poster but she did use the Instagram. She should have made her account private.

It's not like she could have anticipated this. She wasn't expecting to be a public figure. That was never in any of her plans.

...It is a little satisfying to know Fox News hates her, though.

She jumps and looks up when her door opens. She hadn't even noticed Dean getting out of the car. ''Why would people want to follow a dead person on Instagram?'' She blurts out. ''Do they think I'm going to be 'gramming from the great beyond?''

''I don't know,'' he shrugs. He offers her his hand and helps her out of the car, which is unnecessary but sweet. ''I don't understand the millennials. But now I think you should post a selfie just to scare the hell out of people. Is that wrong?''

''Yes, that's mean.''

He laughs again, wrapping an arm around her and tugging her closer so he can drop a kiss to the crown of her head. She lets him, relaxing into the embrace. ''Point is,'' he says. ''You, pretty bird, are famous. A week after your funeral some producer called me and tried to get me to sell the movie rights to your life story to make a Black Canary movie.''

''You're joking, right?''

''Know what's weird? I'm not.''

That's surreal. Life since coming back from the dead sure has been strange. Sometimes it's so unbelievably bizarre that she's not entirely convinced it's real. Maybe this has all been one big coma dream. Maybe she's in the Upside Down. That would certainly make more sense than her having a verified Instagram account. Or superpowers. But mostly the Instagram thing. ''If they ever do make a movie out of my life,'' she begins, small smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. ''I hope they get Tom Hardy to play you 'cause I know you have a crush on him.''

''I do not have a - '' He stops, rather abruptly, and then just shrugs his shoulders and rolls with it. ''Nah, I'm not even gonna pretend. I know who I am and I know I'd tap that.''

She snorts and hides her face in his shoulder to stifle her laughter. She only draws away from him, very reluctantly, when she hears his phone start blaring classic rock. He sighs, attempting to keep her close to him but ultimately lets her pull away and fishes his phone out. ''Hello?'' Almost instantly, he tenses up. ''Sara,'' he gets out before he is presumably cut off. ''Hey - whoa, hey, hey, hey, slow down, pint sized.''

Laurel straightens up when she hears her sister's name and her mind immediately goes to Mary. In the span of about ten seconds, she has thought of exactly seven horrific scenarios that could be playing out right now and each one of them involves something happening to her baby. Mary could be hurt or sick or having a vertigo attack. She could be bleeding, she could have a broken limb, something could be wrong with her ears, her hearing, she could have a tick bite. Ticks don't look like much but they're a real danger! Every parenting blog says so.

''How did you even know about - '' Dean breaks off in a sigh, apparently cut off again. ''I know, Sara, it's fucked up.'' He rubs at his eyes with his free hand. Nothing about his body language is really in line with something being wrong with their daughter. ''Yeah, she's right here, but... Okay, just... Yes, okay. I'm just saying - she's exhausted. ...All right, all right, just a second.'' He looks at Laurel and says, needlessly, ''It's your sister.''

She gestures for him to give her the phone. ''Sar-bear,'' she greets. ''What's wrong?''

 _''Are you seriously asking me that right now?!''_

Laurel winces at the sound of her sister's screech. Oh. Right. ''Dad called you.''

 _''He's a mess,''_ Sara says bluntly. _''I've never heard him like this before. He is so mad at her.''_ There's a pause and then she says, voice unusually small, _''I'm so mad at her.''_

Laurel closes her eyes briefly, bringing a hand up to her forehead. She opens her eyes when she feels Dean's hand massaging the back of her neck. He's hovering around her worriedly, one hand moving to grip her waist loosely. There is yet another thing to add to her list of reasons to be pissed at her mother. She may not have an amazing relationship with her mother, but Sara always has. She doesn't want her to have to lose that. She doesn't want her to be disappointed in Mom. She pulls the phone away from her ear to murmur, ''I'll meet you inside.''

''You sure?''

She nods. Dean leans in to kiss her cheek softly, lets his hand linger on her hip for a second, and then turns to leave. She watches him walk away and all she can think of to say to her sister is, ''I know. I'm sorry.''

 _''Why?''_ Sara mutters. _''You didn't do anything.''_

''I know. Still. I'm sorry you're upset.''

Sara sounds concerned when she asks, in a low voice, _''Are you okay?''_

Laurel wanders away from the door to the building and back over to the car. ''I don't know,'' she answers honestly. She opens the passenger side door and sits down, feet still on the pavement.

 _''How could she do this? How could she keep this from us?''_

''I guess she thought she was doing the right thing.''

 _''This wasn't the right thing.''_

''No,'' Laurel whispers. ''It wasn't.'' She sucks in a breath and leans forward. ''How much did Dad tell you?''

 _''Just that you inherited the scream from Mom's side of the family, she knew about it, and she never told us. Why? Is there more?''_

''He didn't tell you anything about Edie?''

 _''Edie? Cousin Edie? What about her?''_

''Nothing,'' Laurel says, perhaps a smidge too quickly. This is not a conversation she wants to have over the phone. She still doesn't know how much to tell Sara about what happened to Edie. Specifically the part about the Winchesters and their involvement in her death. ''Or, um... Something.''

There is a long silence on the other end. Laurel can practically picture Sara's face as the realization dawns on her. _''She was a firstborn daughter.''_

''I... I'll tell you about it when I get home, okay?''

Sara doesn't hear that part apparently. _''Wait, holy shit. Does this have anything to do with why she - ''_

''It's late, Sara,'' Laurel says, gently but firmly. ''We shouldn't talk about this over the phone.''

 _''...Right. We'll talk about it later.''_ Something about Sara's voice sounds off.

''Sara,'' Laurel says softly. ''It's not going to happen to me.''

 _''What?''_

''You're catastrophizing,'' Laurel says. ''Whatever horrible thing you think happened to Edie because of this. It's not going to happen to me. Nothing bad is going to happen to me.''

Sara lets out a humorless laugh. _''Laurel,''_ she says. _''Something bad already happened to you.''_

Automatically, Laurel winds an arm around her abdomen and tries to ignore the phantom ache from where the arrow went in, the ghostly memory of Darhk's voice in her ear. _I want you to give your father a message for me_. She lets out a slow breath and looks down at the wet cement. She doesn't want to think about that tonight. She has enough to panic about. Quite frankly, it's a miracle she hasn't had a second panic attack yet. With one as big as the one she had earlier, there are usually what she calls ''aftershocks.'' Guess she's been too busy and too angry to panic.

 _''I'm sorry,''_ Sara says suddenly. _''You're right. It's late. I should let you go. I just wanted to - I don't know. Hear your voice, I guess. Make sure you were okay.''_

Laurel smiles and hopes her sister can hear it in her voice. ''And I love you for that,'' she says. ''Hey, how's my girl doing?''

Sara's response is instant. _''I'm okay. Thanks for asking.''_

''Good to know, smart ass,'' Laurel laughs. ''But I was actually talking about Mary. Was she much trouble for you guys?''

 _''Eh,''_ she can literally hear the shrug. _''There may have been a minor meltdown at bedtime, but we handled it. Well, Thea handled it. I hid in the kitchen and ate all your goldfish crackers. Anyway, she's fast asleep now. I've learned I may not be mom material. Like, Laurel, how do you say no to her?''_ She sounds completely baffled. _''She gives me those big eyes of hers and I just want to give her everything she asks for.''_

''Wow,'' Laurel drawls. ''You are so lucky Thea's there.''

 _''I really, really am,''_ Sara agrees. _''I would've crashed and burned without her. We would've had microwave popcorn and store bought chocolate cupcakes for dinner and she'd still be up watching Netflix. Luckily, Thea was here to make us mac and cheese. Did you know she sneaks veggies into her mac and cheese?''_

''I did.''

 _''That's really smart.''_

''You know, Sara, I think I've just put my finger on why you're the favourite aunt.''

 _''I accept that title with gratitude,''_ Sara says, laughing.

Laurel relaxes ever so slightly at the sound. She's never told her sister this but Mary's laugh reminds her a lot of Sara's laugh when she was a kid. It's still the best sound. At least that's one thing about her childhood that no one can take from her. The memories of growing up in the Drake family have changed tonight, shifted from innocent childhood memories to something else entirely. There was so much going on behind the scenes that she didn't know about and now all she can think about is how she was never as innocent or as normal as she thought. Everything has changed. But she still has Sara. Now and then, she still has Sara. Those memories are untouched by her mother's lies at least.

 _''Laurel?''_ Some of the humor has drained out of Sara's voice. _''You still here?''_

''I'm here,'' Laurel reassures her. She picks at a hole in her jeans and thinks of Mary. It's not just her life that has changed tonight. She's been trying not to think about that. ''What am I supposed to tell her, Sara? How am I supposed to explain to her what she has inside? She's four. How do I make her understand? I don't even understand.''

Mary is four years old. Right now, her biggest problems are bedtime and not having a pet and that's the way it should be. Her life is just starting to get back to normal in her eyes. Mom's home, Dad's feeling better, and Aunt Thea still makes the best mac and cheese in the world. She's not old enough to fully grasp how messed up things are. She's smarter than they give her credit for, always has been. Growing up with parents who live with mental illness and addiction has allowed her to understand the concept of empathy, compassion, and caretaking in a way that maybe some other four year olds can't. But this is too much. She is smart and she is strong, but this is just too much. It's not like she can just not tell her. That's what her mother did. It hasn't ended well. If this is something Mary has then she needs to know about it in case something happens. It could be triggered at any time.

''How do I apologize for doing this to her?'' Laurel says, voice low.

 _''You don't,''_ Sara's tone is firm. _''You don't apologize because you have nothing to apologize for. You had no idea this thing existed. This is not your fault.''_

''But I'm still the one who passed this down to her,'' Laurel argues. ''She's already different, Sara. I don't want to keep making her life harder than it has to be.'' She looks up at the moon, blinking against the pressure behind her eyes. ''I don't want her to be scared of herself,'' she admits shakily. ''You and I both know how awful that feels.''

 _''Laurel,''_ Sara murmurs. There's a long stretch of silence after she says that. _''Okay,''_ she says. _''I know you already know this but your daughter is an incredible little girl and she is going to grow up to be an incredible young woman. Part of that will be because of you and Dean. I don't think you two realize how lucky Mary is to have you guys as parents. You're good at this. Both of you. And you're going to be there to love and support her every step of the way, no matter what happens. That's all you can do.''_

Laurel sniffles. She hopes love and support will be enough. The part that worries her is the potential for isolation. Mary is already having trouble making friends with the kids at her preschool because of her hearing. They don't want to play with her. According to Dean, she eats her snack with the teacher most days. If something happens and her cry is triggered while she's still young, it will only add to her loneliness. She doesn't want her to end up like her and she definitely does not want her to end up like Edie.

''I guess.'' She swipes at her eyes, sitting up a little straighter. ''Uh, listen, Sara, I should go. Dean's supposed to be taking me to get something to eat and then we need to get on the road.''

 _''Oh, right. Sure. I should probably get some sleep anyway,''_ Sara says, clearly trying to make her voice sound as light and casual as possible. _''I'm wiped. And I was only a babysitter for a day.''_

Laurel chuckles. ''Are you guys going to be okay if we don't make it home in time to get Mary ready for school tomorrow?''

 _''Yeah, yeah, we're good. Don't worry about it.''_

''All right, get some sleep, kiddo.''

 _''Hey, Laurel?''_

''Hmm?''

 _''I have several questions about Paw Patrol.''_

Laurel blinks several times, thrown. Can't say she had been expecting that one. ''You - wait, what?''

 _''Why can the dogs talk but the cats can't?''_ Sara asks, dead serious. _''That seems speciesist. How did those dogs learn to drive? Who was their teacher and why did they think it was a good idea to teach dogs to drive? Where are Ryder's parents? Are they the ones bankrolling this? If not, where is he getting his financial backing? Why is Marshall the one in charge of fire and rescue and all the medical stuff when he can't even stand in one place without falling over? I would not trust that dog with my life. Also, why can't the Mayor handle anything without needing help from a ten year old? Even Ollie's more competent than that. And when does that poor kid get a break? He can't even play on the monkey bars without getting called away. And you know what? You know what else? Why is there only one girl dog and why does she have to wear so much pink? That seems gender specific and reductive.''_

Laurel doesn't say a word for a long time, too shocked to answer, and then she bursts out laughing. ''Oh my god, Sara,'' she gets out. ''How much screen time did you give my child today?''

 _''Oh, she only watched two episodes,''_ Sara says. _''I watched like six after she went to bed.''_

''Seriously?''

 _''I wanted to know if my concerns were addressed! I asked Mary my questions when I was watching with her but she just signed something at me and Thea told me to be quiet so I had to go on a fact finding mission. Fact: I learned nothing. I just wound up with more questions.''_

''Okay, I'm going to hang up now.''

 _''Wait, wait, wait, Laurel! One more thing, it's really important. I promise it's not about Paw Patrol.''_

''What is it?''

 _''...Did Max and Ruby kill their parents?''_

''Good night, Sara.''

The last thing she hears before she ends the call is Sara's laugh echoing through the quiet night.

For a few minutes after she ends the phone call, Laurel stays right where she is. She doesn't rush to go back inside. She allows herself a few moments of much needed silence. A few minutes where she can close her eyes, take a few deep breaths, and not think about anything. She lets the silence wash over her, focuses only on the November breeze, and the panic that has been eating away at her finally starts to lessen. She's sure it will come back, most likely violently, but right now, she enjoys the moment of solitude. The knot in her chest begins to loosen.

 _God grant me the serenity,_ she remembers, _to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference._

She can't change what her mother has done. She can't change the lies. She can't change what happened to Edie either, but she can make sure that doesn't happen to her. She can change the outcome of this. Her mother and her aunts, even her beloved grandmother, they treated this thing like a weakness. Something to be afraid of and ashamed of. She doesn't want that. She doesn't want to isolate herself from the world as if she's some unclean thing that needs to be hidden away. She will readily admit that she is terrified of this scream inside of her, but she will not be ashamed. That's not the kind of life she wants to live, and that's not what she wants to teach her daughter. She wants to teach her to be brave.

Dinah said this wasn't a burden. A sociopathic murderess version of herself may not be the best person to take advice from but she was right about that. This is not a burden. A complication, yes, maybe. A challenge. But not a burden. It's a part of her. She will have to make room for it the way she's made room for everything else. Accept that it's a part of her, will always be a part of her, but refuse to let it drag her under.

She will not end up like Edie. She won't leave her family behind again. They've been through enough. So has she. She will not be anyone's victim ever again.

Laurel looks down at Dean's phone in her hand. She turns it on to check the time and, unexpectedly, a laugh rises up in her throat. His lockscreen is a picture of her. She recognizes where it's from instantly. Last March when they had taken a quick overnight trip to Seattle for their anniversary. She remembers that night so clearly. March 15th, 2016. She remembers being in the back of their Uber after dinner on their way back to the hotel, texting Thea to make sure everything was okay at home, but she doesn't remember Dean snapping this picture of her. She's glad they took that trip.

She remembers she hadn't wanted to take the trip. She had been so busy and so distracted by everything going on that she had almost forgotten their anniversary and when Dean suggested going to Seattle, she had hesitated. There had been a millions reasons to put it off. She didn't want to take the two days off work (even though she'd had vacation days), she thought finding someone to watch Mary overnight would be a hassle, she wanted to focus on the Darhk case, she didn't want to leave her team in the lurch.

She had even attempted to persuade him to put the trip off and take an extended vacation in the summer. ''If we wait, we could make plans to go somewhere else,'' she had said. ''Maybe Hawaii. We could make it a family trip. Maybe even stay for a week or two.''

But he had insisted. He didn't want a week in Hawaii with the family. He wanted one night in Seattle with her.

Looking back on it, she is so glad he pushed for that trip. That was one of their last real moments. It was one of the last times they got to spend quality time together just the two of them. Now, after everything, she's happy to have that memory. She ended up having such a good time that she told him she wanted to go back for her birthday. They had even made reservations at the hotel for the following month. She hadn't made it to her birthday. She hopes they didn't charge him anything when he had to cancel at the last minute.

When this is all over, when they find the witches and sort this out, when she has been legally resurrected and has her cry under control and everything has gone back to normal, they should go back to Seattle. That sounds like a good idea. They'll stay in the same hotel, the one with the view of the city lights and the Puget Sound, they'll order room service so they won't have to leave the room and they'll laugh at the foolish idea that something as inconsequential as death could ever truly keep them apart.

That sounds like a plan. She'll make the reservations as soon as they get home. March 15th, 2017. It will be a good day. She's counting on it.

Laurel slips the phone into her pocket and gets to her feet. As soon as she stands up, she feels this sharp, stabbing pain in her right side. It's so strong it takes her breath away. It starts as this stinging feeling, then becomes a burning nausea, and then it just hurts. A cry pushes through her dry lips and she doubles over, clutching at the Impala's door in an attempt to keep herself upright. She grabs at her side, fully expecting to feel blood but there's nothing there. This intense agony is pain she knows. She remembers this. She has felt this exact pain before. Back in April when Damien Darhk shoved an arrow in her lung.

Terror slams into her and she moans weakly, tears of pain blurring her vision. It's instinct for her to call out for help, but she clenches her teeth together and stays as quiet as possible, working on trying to get oxygen to reach her lungs so she can stop making this awful, wet gasping noise. The pain does not pass quickly. It's not phantom pain because of PTSD. She's not having a flashback. This is not in her head. This pain is real, and it is blinding. She can't think straight, she can't hear anything but the blood roaring in her ears, and everything seems so far away.

It takes a few minutes but then the pain begins to dissipate. It's a slow fade, growing weaker, turning into something a little less excruciating, then into something tolerable that she can at least breathe through, and then eventually, there's nothing but a dull ache.

She doesn't risk moving at first. She stays doubled over, one hand wound around her abdomen, just trying to catch her breath. Finally, she manages to straighten up and close the door. She's still breathing harshly, taking in large gulps of cold air and she swears she can taste blood in her mouth, but she can at least stand. She grits her teeth and lifts her shirt up to look at her scar. She doesn't know what she'd been expecting. It's still there. It's not inflamed or irritated, not swollen or red, it hasn't somehow opened up, she's not bleeding. There is no physical trace of what just happened other than the soreness left behind.

She lowers her shirt and presses her lips together. Whatever that was, she is not keen on letting anyone else know about it tonight. Team Flash all have their own problems to deal with. They don't need hers. And Dean has had a bad enough night. She'll tell him tomorrow. It can wait. It honestly could have been a fluke. She hasn't ruled that out. Just because it felt real doesn't mean it was. It was probably psychological.

She is still rubbing at her side, trying to keep her movements somewhat sluggish and careful as she walks back into Star Labs. Her eyes immediately seek out Dean. He's off to the side, talking quietly with Caitlin. She still has no idea what went on there but she knows it's something he feels immensely guilty for so it's good they're talking. She doesn't want to interrupt them. Instead, she moves over to the console in the center of the room where Cisco and Harrison Wells are standing, talking to someone over the comms.

When Cisco sees her, a wide grin stretches across his lips. ''Hey, BC,'' he greets.

She smiles softly. ''You know, Cisco, you can call me Laurel.''

''Nah,'' he shrugs, taking a long slurp from the Big Belly Burger's cup in his hand. ''Not as cool.''

She laughs. She should come here more often. She needs a Cisco in her life. ''What are you guys doing?''

''Crawl spaces,'' Harrison Wells declares proudly, looking at her with a slightly unnerving smile. It occurs to her that she has no idea which Harrison Wells this is. Is this even Harrison Wells? He doesn't seem to react to her presence in a way that says he recognizes her. He also doesn't appear to be evil. What exactly is the protocol for this?

Since her side is still throbbing slightly, she decides she's going to let it go for now. ''Crawl spaces,'' she echoes. She eases herself down into a chair and hopes they don't notice her slight wince, though she's pretty sure Wells does.

''We're looking for Onomatopoeia,'' Cisco says. ''We think there's a chance he might have hid in one of them after you blasted him. There's no way he's still there but if he was wounded by the glass - ''

'' - There might be a DNA sample,'' Caitlin finishes, coming to stand next to him. ''Which means there's a chance we could identify the man behind the mask.''

''Impressive,'' Laurel says, tilting her head back to send Dean a smile when she feels his hand on the nape of her neck.

''Everything okay?'' He asks, voice low.

''Yep,'' she says, determinedly upbeat. She holds up his phone with a flourish for him to take. ''She just wanted to ask me if Max and Ruby's killed their parents.''

Dean takes that in stride, nodding his head understandingly. ''A common question.''

''I feel like they almost definitely killed them.''

''I thought that too but they actually introduced the parents recently.''

''Hold up.'' She twirls the chair around to gape at him. ''What?'' She grabs his hand and pulls herself and the chair over to him. ''Are you serious?'' That is truly the most surprising revelation of the night.

''I recorded the episode,'' Dean confesses. ''Mary doesn't even like that show. I just needed to know.''

''Oh my god, do you still have the episode?''

''I think it's still on there. Gotta admit, it was kind of anticlimactic.''

Behind them, someone clears their throat.

Laurel turns her head, but keeps a tight hold on Dean's hand. Wells, Caitlin, and Cisco are all staring at them with identically confused and slightly concerned expressions. ''What language are you speaking?'' Cisco asks.

Dean says, ''Parenthood.''

''Sounds like an acid trip.''

''Uh, guys?'' Wally's voice sounds over the speakers. ''I think I found something? Wait, no - yeah, I definitely found something.''

''What?'' Barry's voice asks. ''Blood?''

''No, Mrs. Bloomfeld's cat. It's under her porch. It had kittens. They're so _tiny_.''

''...Mittens is a girl?!''

''Oh, thank God,'' Joe's voice says dryly, ''That woman has been on me about that damn cat.''

''I never found any kittens,'' Laurel mumbles. She looks up at Dean. ''Did you ever find any kittens?''

He shakes his head. ''Found lots of rats.''

''Okay,'' Iris says, strolling up to the console. She just sort of materializes out of thin air. ''Someone needs to get Mittens and her babies to the vet or an SPCA and someone needs to let Mrs. Bloomfeld know that her cat's alive so she can stop wearing her mourning veil. Also,'' she swirls around to face Dean and Laurel. ''I need to talk to you two for a minute.'' She doesn't exactly give them a choice in the matter. There's no use fighting her so Laurel just lets her pull her to her feet and does her best to bite back a groan of pain at the movement.

''Does this woman really wear a mourning veil?'' Dean asks as she pulls them out into the hallway. ''Or was that hyperbole?''

''Good question,'' Laurel nods. ''But also, hey, quick other question: Which Harrison Wells is that? Does he know who I am? I feel like I should introduce myself.''

Iris ignores all of this. The tone of her voice is slightly urgent when she turns to Dean and says, ''You were right about Dinah.''

Laurel has no idea what that means but judging by the way his expression darkens, it can't be good. ''What about Dinah?''

''I asked Iris to check out Dee's suit,'' Dean says. ''See if there's a reason why she would go after it instead of just ditching it.''

Laurel crosses her arms over her chest. ''What did you find?''

Iris cranes her neck to look around them, just to make sure no one's eavesdropping. ''I found two damn good reasons she wouldn't want to ditch this suit,'' she says, and drops a small object into the palm of Dean's hand.

It's a ring. To be more exact, it's a wedding band. Dean takes a quick look at it, oddly unfazed, and then hands it over to Laurel. It's a simple gold band, not unlike Dean's. For a moment, Laurel wonders if it could be his. Or at least Earth Two his. Then she notices the engraving on the inside of the ring.

 _Love always - OJQ. 8/3/05._

''Oh,'' is all she manages to get out.

''And that's not even the most depressing part,'' Iris says. She fishes something out of her pocket and hands what looks like a folded photograph over to Dean. He takes one look at it and goes pale. He still doesn't seem entirely surprised by what he's looking at. Wordlessly, he gives Laurel the picture.

She looks down at the photograph, at the smiling faces, and her heart just plummets. Instantly, without even stopping to think about it for two seconds, she looks at Iris and says, ''I need to see Dinah.''

.

.

.

The look on Dinah's face when she finds herself face to face with herself for the second time in one day is something akin to annoyed fascination. ''Hey, girl scout,'' she greets. She's sitting on the ground of her tiny cell with her back against the wall, closely examining her split ends. ''You look like death warmed over.'' She shoots Laurel a Cheshire grin. ''Pun obviously intended.''

The look on her face when Laurel silently opens the door to her cell and steps inside is a lot less annoyed and a lot more shocked. For a second, she almost looks fearful. Like she thinks she's about to be executed. She walls that fear up quick, clenching her jaw and looking purposefully irritated. ''Come to put me out of my misery?''

''Don't be ridiculous,'' Laurel scoffs, and shuts the door behind her, locking herself in. The action seems to stun Dinah into silence.

Laurel doesn't say anything about it. Doesn't bother to explain herself or warn Dinah not to try anything. She settles herself on the small, hard cot against the opposite wall. She has a panic button up her sleeve and a comm in her ear. She is armed with a syringe full of sedative just in case, a code phrase for when she wants out, and there is a small audience listening to her every word. She doesn't think she'll need the panic button or the sedative and she wishes this chat could be kept purely between them, but she understands that safety comes first and that she is taking a huge risk here.

Dinah doesn't need to know about any of that. What she needs to know is that Laurel is here, sharing the space with her, on the same level, open, unthreatening, and vulnerable. Hopefully that will help. ''You were right about my mom,'' she starts. ''She knew about my meta powers. She never told me.''

Dinah snorts. ''Shit move.''

''Yes. It was.'' Laurel cocks her head to the side, looking closely at the other her. She doesn't look exactly like her. Mirror images never do. ''I take it she told you on your earth?''

Dinah draws her knees up and gives Laurel a disapproving onceover. She looks somewhat curious but still guarded and on edge. ''She's dead on my earth,'' she states, emotionless and blunt.

Laurel's shoulders slump. ''Oh.'' There is a wave of sadness that washes over her when she hears that. She tries to remind herself that this is not her life and her mother is not dead, but it's still a hard thing to hear. ''I'm sorry to hear that.''

Dinah just shrugs. ''I barely knew the woman. She died when my sister was born. I was too young to remember her.''

''But you knew about your powers.''

''Dad told me. She was open about it from the beginning. She wanted me to know what was going to happen to me.''

Laurel looks down at her hands. Sucks that her own mother couldn't give her the same consideration.

''My family is proud of who we are,'' Dinah says, picking at the bandages on her wrist. ''No sense in hiding it.''

Laurel almost laughs at that. Mirror images indeed. ''That's not how it is here,'' she says. ''I think they're ashamed of it here. They call it a curse.''

Dinah snaps her head up to stare at Laurel with narrowed, offended eyes. ''Power is not a curse.''

''It can be terrifying if you don't know what to do with it.''

''Life is terrifying,'' is the flat reply. ''Doesn't mean you get to hide from it.''

That's it. That's the opening she's been waiting for. ''Really?'' It's true, in all honesty. It's good advice. Dinah has a good point. If not a hypocritical one. ''Isn't that what you've done?''

''Excuse me?''

''Come on,'' Laurel keeps her voice low. ''Look at you. We both know this whole bad girl persona you've adopted is just an act. You're trying to hide yourself from the world.''

Dinah laughs cruelly. ''Oh, you know that, do you?''

''Of course,'' Laurel replies, keeping her voice pointedly relaxed. ''I am you, you know.''

''You are _not_ me.''

Laurel doesn't react to the harsh snarl. ''You're suffering,'' she says. ''I can see it from a mile away. You've had a rough life so you've walled yourself off from everything and everyone just to protect yourself from the pain. But walls can't stay up forever, Dinah.''

Still, Dinah has no strong reaction to that. She looks mildly agitated but she doesn't look too bothered or shaken by the words. She's still sitting on the ground, looking comfortable and relaxed. ''Is this the part where you save me from myself?'' She laughs at the thought, shaking her head. ''You just can't stop your damn heroism for one night, can you?'' She leans her head back against the wall and closes her eyes. ''Let me let you in on a secret, Princess,'' she intones. ''We're not the same. You can pretend all you want, but you don't know me.''

''I know you lost your Oliver,'' Laurel reveals.

Dinah waves that off like it's nothing. ''That was nearly a decade ago.''

''But you loved him,'' Laurel says. ''You love him.''

There is a long silence after that. Dinah visibly swallows but doesn't say a word. After a minute or two, she opens her eyes and looks at Laurel with a hollow smirk pulling at her lips. ''What is it that you want, Laurel?''

Laurel frowns, genuinely confused. ''What do you mean? I don't want anything.'' That is the truth. Or something close to it. This isn't a trick. She just wants to have an honest conversation. She knows what suffering looks like. She knows what it looks like on her. What she wants is to give Dinah a chance. Nobody else has done that. Dinah has made bad choices and she needs to face the consequences for that, but she does deserve a chance if she wants one. Only she can change her fate. She wants her to know that. ''We're just talking,'' she says.

''Please,'' Dinah says, voice dripping with sarcasm. ''I've played this game before. I know the rules.''

Laurel hums contemplatively. ''Is there anyone waiting for you?'' She questions after a minute. ''Do you have anyone back on your earth to go home to?''

Dinah scoffs, crossing her ankles.

Laurel persists. ''If there's someone you have to go back to - ''

''There's not,'' it's a short, sharp answer. ''There's no one.''

Laurel was so hoping she would have a different answer to that question. She thinks of the wedding band burning a hole in her pocket. The picture she slipped inside her jacket that suddenly feels too heavy to carry. ''What happened when the particle accelerator exploded?''

That one seems to get a reaction out of her. Dinah abandons her quest to peel off her bandages and looks at Laurel with a look in her eyes that reminds her vaguely of a wild animal. ''What?''

''What did it have to do with triggering your scream?'' Laurel asks. ''Were you injured? Was someone else?''

''Why don't you cut the crap,'' Dinah's voice is eerily smooth, ''and tell me what it is you think you know about my life. Because clearly you think you know something.''

Ideally, Laurel would give it a few more minutes. Spend some more time poking around Dinah's brain before the big reveal. She doesn't have that kind of time. She takes the picture out of her jacket and moves off the bed to crouch down in front of her doppelganger. She holds out the picture, face up so Dinah can see the grinning, happy, alive faces. Dinah has been locked in here since May. She's been without her suit since August. That's a long time to go without a picture of the one person you most likely love more than anyone else in the world. Especially when that picture is all you have left.

Laurel asks her next question softly, so only Dinah can hear. ''What happened to your son, Dinah?''

Dinah's reaction is instant, vicious. She snatches the picture from Laurel's hand and propels herself to her feet, shoving her away. ''Where did you get this?'' It's worth noting that she moves away from Laurel instead of rushing to attack her, which was the fear. It's also worth noting that her hands are shaking. ''You had no right to...'' She doesn't finish her sentence. She looks down at the photograph.

There are two people in the picture: Dinah and a little boy with sandy blonde hair, a light dusting of freckles across his nose, a gap toothed smile, and Ollie's eyes. In the picture, Dinah is behind him, leaning down to wrap him up in her arms, her cheek pressed against his. She is a far cry from the woman currently standing in this godforsaken cage. There is a healthy glow about her, a genuine smile on her face, and her eyes are soft and full of love. The little boy is beaming excitedly. He looks like he's laughing. On the back of the photograph, the date is scribbled in unfamiliar handwriting: June 25th, 2014.

There is no question about who the boy is. It's clear just from looking at him. He's Dinah Laurel Lance and Oliver Queen's son. It's incredibly strange for Laurel to look at him and see what her life could have looked like if different choices had been made. It's hard to look at him. She's willing to bet it's harder for Dinah.

Dinah clutches the photograph to her chest protectively. ''Who else knows about this?''

''Dean, Iris, and Barry,'' Laurel answers honestly. ''No one else. I swear.'' She bites her lip. ''He... He's Oliver's?''

Dinah glowers at her. ''Of course he's Oliver's. Who else would I _willingly_ have a kid with? I don't even like kids. They're the worst.''

Laurel nods, clasping her hands together in front of her so Dinah can see them. ''What's his name?''

''None of your business.''

''You're right,'' Laurel sits back down on the cot, allowing Dinah to tower over her. ''It's not.'' She's not sure how to approach this next part. ''Dinah,'' she starts, ''when the particle accelerator exploded - ''

''Why do you keep bringing up that fucking explosion?'' Dinah snaps.

''You said it had nothing to do with how you got your scream,'' Laurel says, ''but I think it had everything to do with it.'' She pauses, taking in a breath. ''Your son,'' she says softly. ''He's - ''

''Dead,'' Dinah's voice is a clear attempt to be cold, emotionless, and hard. It would be a lot more convincing if her hands weren't shaking. ''Yes. He was hurt in the blast. He died a few days later.''

Laurel tries not to react to that. It's hard. There's this dull ache in her throat and her chest, this overwhelming grief for a beautiful boy she doesn't even know. She doesn't think she has a right to mourn him when she never knew him and he isn't hers, but just seeing his face... It makes her think of Henry. It's hard not to react. She knows Dinah won't accept her grief. Knows she'll write off her sympathy as pity. She swallows hard and tries to push it away. ''I'm - ''

''Don't,'' Dinah orders harshly. ''Don't tell me you're sorry.''

Laurel clamps her mouth shut and nods.

''Did you get what you wanted?'' Dinah is still clutching the picture to her chest. ''Are you happy now?''

Laurel stays silent for a minute. ''I just wanted to bring you your things,'' she says eventually. She stands, taking the ring out of her pocket and offering it up to Dinah. ''I thought you might want to have them back by your side.''

Dinah hesitates only for a second and then grabs her wedding ring from Laurel. She doesn't say a word, and she doesn't look her in the eye. She slips the ring back on her finger and looks back down at the picture of her son. It occurs to Laurel that this must be the only picture of him she has left. She takes something else from her pocket and holds it out. When Dinah sees what it is, her eyebrows raise. She looks genuinely stunned.

If the tension between them wasn't so thick, Laurel would be laughing at the look on her face. She goes for a small smile instead. ''You wanted Big Red, right?''

Dinah reaches out to take the pack of gum just as the cell door unlocks and opens. She startles, caught off guard. For a second, Laurel worries her unpredictable doppelganger might attempt to make a break for it in the brief window of opportunity she has. She clearly doesn't want to be here. Much to her surprise, Dinah doesn't even try. Laurel easily slips out of the cell as fast as she can and locks it back up without incident.

She doesn't leave it at that. She should because she knows she shouldn't rush this, but there's so much more that she wants to say to her. ''You can't wall yourself off from this pain,'' she advises gently.

''You think that's what this is about?'' Dinah chuckles lowly. It's a cruel sounding laugh. ''You think - what? I went dark because I lost a child? You think I just decided to hide from my grief by slapping on some black leather and screaming the world down?'' She rolls her eyes. ''Please. You have no idea what you're talking about. Be glad you don't. My son died, Laurel. I had this amazing little boy, he was my entire life, he was the only piece of his dad I had left,'' she swallows, ''and he died. Violently. I wasn't even there to hold his hand.'' She shakes her head. ''There is no wall that can keep that out. There is no way to hide from this kind of pain. I feel it every second of every day. It would be easier to swallow if that was the reason, wouldn't it?'' She smirks again, but it's far from convincing. ''It would make this whole thing _cleaner_ ,'' she tilts her head to the side, ''wouldn't it? If I was just some poor grieving mother making bad choices then you could be the hero. Snap me out of it. Turn me into you.'' She approaches the glass separating them and leans in, eyes sparkling, scowl twisted onto her lips. ''I am not you. I am not some pathetically idealistic Barbie doll with self-esteem issues and some sugary view of the world.''

Laurel doesn't react to that. Doesn't give Dinah the fight she's clearly craving. She just nods and says, ''You're right. You're not me. I shouldn't try to make you into me.''

Dinah looks a little uneasy at the lack of fight. ''So what happens now?''

''What do you mean?''

''Am I your new pet project?'' A snicker. ''Do I get to hear some speech about how I'm good inside and there's still time to change?''

Laurel stuffs her hands into the pockets of her black leather jacket and frowns in confusion. ''How should I know if you're good inside?'' Truthfully, a motivational speech does sound like the kind of thing she would have done before. It's not before anymore, is the thing. Unfortunately - or fortunately depending on your feelings on motivational speeches - they're stuck in the after now. She doesn't even know what she would say. ''You made your choices.'' The flippant tone of her voice wipes that annoying smirk off Dinah's face real quick. ''Nobody should have to endure the kind of loss you've been through, but that doesn't erase what you've done. It would be dangerously naive and arrogant to think that your tragic backstory excuses your actions.''

The look on Dinah's face seems to be caught somewhere between relief and disappointment. ''That mean you're not going to offer me some bullshit redemption arc?''

''Redemption isn't given,'' Laurel says sternly. ''It's earned.'' She locks eyes with Dinah and refuses to let her look away. ''Would you like to earn it?''

Dinah's response to that is to burst out laughing. ''Earn it,'' she cackles. ''You mean change. Be like you. Remind me again, you self-righteous little twit, where did your heroism and your obnoxious goodness get you?'' A slow smile spreads across her lips. ''Oh, right,'' she says. ''Six feet under.''

Laurel tries not to flinch. She doesn't want to give Dinah the win but she can't quite help the squirm of discomfort.

''We live in an ugly world,'' Dinah says strongly, ''and the only way to survive it is to be ugly right back.''

She almost sounds like she truly believes that.

Laurel glances at Dinah out of the corner of her eye, thoroughly unimpressed. That's a bold statement of defeat. Even in her darkest moments, she has never believed that. She's not sure what she believes in anymore, she has to admit that, but she knows it's not that. Okay then. Since Dinah is so obviously asking for it, she can give her what she wants.

''I live in a beautiful world,'' she says. She lifts her chin, holding her head up high, straightening her back. Her voice is hushed but defiant. This, she knows how to do. She's good at this part. ''It's not a perfect world, but it's what we have. I understand that there is sadness here, and anger. I know that this life is full of fear and chaos, but I also know that there's hope here. There's always hope.''

Dinah looks petulant, crossing her arms and glowering like a sullen teenager. ''Do you honestly believe that?''

''I do.''

''Then you're an idiot.''

Laurel grins. ''Maybe.'' She looks at the bandages on Dinah's wrists and then takes a step closer to the glass. ''You know, when I tell my daughter about why I became the Black Canary, I want her to know that I felt it was my responsibility to preserve and protect the world so that she could hopefully live in a better one. It's important to me that she knows that my choices were made out of love. Always love. It's the one thing you can count on. I want her to believe in that. I also want her to believe in magic. Not witchcraft, not any of this crap we face,'' she laughs wryly, twisting her wedding rings nervously. ''But simple, every day magic.'' She pauses, trying to come up with something more to say. It's been harder to find the magic lately. That doesn't mean it's not there. It's just been...

...Harder to find.

''I wake up in the morning, I make my coffee, I go out into the backyard, the sun shines through the branches of the apple tree, and that's all the magic I need. I eat, I sleep, I breathe, I hear and joke and I laugh, and that, Dinah, is magic. I want her to know that there is beauty in this world, even in the darkness.''

Dinah remains unconvinced. She scoffs at that and rolls her eyes again. It's the first reaction this speech has managed to elicit.

''There is,'' Laurel insists. ''I promise you there is. You just have to look for it.''

''Are you going somewhere with this,'' Dinah deadpans, ''or do you just like to hear yourself talk?''

''You can't see the sun shining through the branches of the apple tree if you're rotting in a cage.''

Dinah still for a second but doesn't break eye contact with Laurel. The tensing of her shoulders betrays the cool, unmoved demeanor she's going for.

''Don't you want to be free?'' Laurel asks, even though she knows the answer. ''Listen,'' she sighs. ''I can't presume to know what you've been through or what impact it's had on you. I can't understand your pain. And you're right. It's idealistic to think that the choices you made were just made out of grief. I don't know you well enough to assume that. I can't tell you that you're good inside and that there's still time to change.'' She smiles tightly. ''All I can do is tell you what I would tell my daughter. Mary will learn loss. She's already had to learn that lesson and she'll have to learn it again. Probably more than once. She will know heartache and anger and fear. I can't stop that from happening,'' she confesses, regretfully. ''But when she learns that life is a fight, I will be there to teach her that it is a beautiful fight. When she's knocked down and she has to make the choice to either stay down or get up, I want her to get up every time. I want her to want to get up. Because she will get knocked down. And it'll hurt just the same every time. But we still have to get up. I want her to know that the sun has to rise every morning, and so do we.''

For some reason, that's the line that seems to pierce through Dinah's armor. She noticeably presses her lips together tightly and turns away from the glass, shuffling back over to the cot. She perches on the edge of the uncomfortable bed with the picture of her son still clenched in her right hand and Oliver's ring still adorning her left ring finger. She looks, suddenly, worn out and sickly. Maybe it's just the horrible lighting. Maybe it's the blood loss or the lack of sunlight. Or maybe it's the phrase.

 _The sun has to rise every morning, and so do we._

Laurel says that a lot. She can't help it. It's in her head every morning when she wakes up. Her grandmother used to say that. Not Beatrice Drake but Leanne Lance, her father's mother. She didn't know Leanne all that well - the Gotham Lances aren't a particularly close knit family - and she died when she was thirteen but she remembers she used to say that. It stuck with her. She clung to that phrase when the boat went down. Some days she resented it. Other days it was the only thing that got her out of bed.

She wonders if it means the same thing to Dinah. She wonders if it's something she perhaps hasn't heard in a long time.

''I want Mary to know,'' she goes on, dropping her voice slightly, ''that even in the darkest night, there will always be a light at the end of the tunnel and hands waiting to guide her home. That's what I want her to know. That's what I want you to know as well.''

Dinah carefully tucks the picture of her son under her pillow. ''Why?''

''Because I don't think anyone's told you that in a long time.'' Laurel leans a shoulder up against the glass and crosses her arms casually. ''If you want, I will offer you my hand.'' She knows that there is a good chance that this is useless. She knows that it's possible Dinah has made up her mind and nothing will change that. Maybe this is who she is. But she still has to try. It's just in her nature.

''You should do spoken word poetry,'' Dinah remarks. She reclines back on the bed, taking the plastic off the pack of gum. ''What were you hoping to get from this speech?'' She asks, peeling the wrapper off a piece of gum and popping it into her mouth. It looks a lot less like a casual action and more like a tactic to avoid looking at her. ''What's supposed to happen next?''

''I guess we'll find out.''

Dinah raises her head slightly, looking up from the gum wrapper she's currently rolling into a tiny ball.

''Enjoy the gum,'' Laurel says easily. ''If you have any other requests, let someone know and I'll see what I can do for you.'' She steps back from the cell and turns away to leave. Before she gets too far, she stops. She can't decide if her next words are a threat or a promise but she knows they need to be said and she knows she wants Dinah to really hear them. She turns back around to look at her doppelganger, at the hollowness of her cheeks and the shadows in her eyes, and she offers her a soft, ''I'll be seeing you, Dinah.''

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 **end part six**

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 **AN:** **Chapter title from the poem ''I Wake in a Field of Wolves with the Moon'' by Jose Olivarez. The full line is: ''I know no love without teeth and have the scars to remember.''**

 **(Also, listen. ALL LASAGNAS ARE VALID. Even the vegan ones.)**


	7. A Body of Vandalized Cathedrals

_AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Emetophobia warning for this chapter. There is a scene that involves vomiting toward the very end of the chapter._

* * *

 **How the Light Gets In**

 _Written by Becks Rylynn_

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 **Part Seven:**

 _A Body of Vandalized Cathedrals_

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Twelve days after coming back from the dead, Laurel wakes up in the middle of the night to a splitting headache.

The pain is so fierce that it pulls her out of a sound sleep. It's this overwhelming ache that jolts her back into consciousness. She doesn't move at first, other than groggily bringing a hand up to her face. She lies still and tries to will the pain away. When that doesn't work, she tries changing positions, rolling onto her back. That makes it even worse.

It's a throbbing pain that spreads through her entire head and down her neck. It's behind her eyes, her temples, the back of her head, the top of her head, it's everywhere. The sharpness of it is the worst. It doesn't feel like any headache she's had in the past. It's not comparable to a migraine, a stress headache, or a hangover and it is, without a doubt, the worst headache she's ever had. And she used to get migraines frequently so she knows bad headaches.

She manages to heave herself up into a sitting but slouched position, clutching at her head. She breathes through the wave of nausea that hits the moment she sits up and then tries to rub at the back of her neck. Maybe she just slept wrong.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realizes that the general rule of thumb is to at least go to urgent care if you are experiencing a severe headache unlike any you have ever had before but she can't do that. She is publicly dead. Even if she wasn't, they could never afford a trip to urgent care or the ER just for a headache. She has no job anymore, which means she has no health insurance. She is very much aware of their current financial situation. It's not good. The only reason Dean's been able to keep Mary up to date on her various therapies and appointments is because Thea quietly took over paying for all of it. Laurel doesn't want to keep taking money from her. She's just a kid. She shouldn't be bankrolling someone else's family.

Laurel looks over at Dean, still sleeping peacefully, lying on his side with his back to her. She doesn't want to wake him up for this. It's just a headache. She manages to get herself to up onto her feet without keeling over or tossing her cookies. Moving does send a brand new burst of agony coursing through her, but she grits her teeth against it and hobbles out of the bedroom.

In the bathroom, without even bothering to turn on the lights, she splashes her face with cold water, spends too long agonizing over whether she should take an Advil, and then eventually just swallows one dry. It's fine. It's on the list of approved medication she can take. She checked with her doctor about that a long time ago.

She doesn't want to wake Dean up with her inevitable tossing and turning so she wanders out into the living room to camp out on the couch. It's quiet in the shadowy living room. The only sound is the ticking of her grandmother's antique clock. She rubs at the base of her neck, trying to work out imaginary knots with her fingers. She takes the remote control off the top of the television and sinks onto the couch. She grabs her grandmother's old handcrafted knitted blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around herself.

It's odd, she thinks, that Sara isn't here. She was asleep on the couch earlier. Laurel made sure she was comfortable and had extra blankets and enough pillows before she went to bed. She must have gotten restless. She probably went out to patrol.

Laurel turns on the television. A mindless infomercial would be a welcome distraction right now. She used to watch infomercials all the time. So did Dean. The magic bullet one was their go to. She flicks through the channels, a frown forming on her lips. All the channels are nothing but static. Every single channel. She clicks off the television and puts the remote on the coffee table. That seems strange. Maybe the bill wasn't paid this month?

She leans back on the couch, sliding her gaze over to the window. There is a faint orange glow from the streetlight coming in through the white, almost translucent curtains. The curtains look different. She remembers them looking different. She's sure of it. She picked them out. She decorated this whole house. Mary got curtains with baby animals on them - and has since named every single animal. The master bedroom used to have blackout curtains until Laurel put them in Thea's room one day to replace the gross old dirty plastic blinds that the house came with. The dining room has always had white lace cotton curtains. But the living room had these really ugly old fashioned looking polyester curtains that were supposed to be gold to compliment the warm, soft yellow walls but ended up looking like puke green against the yellow. She is certain of it. She remembers picking the fabric out. It was on sale and she was already way over budget so she bought it. The curtains look like trash but they've never gotten around to replacing them.

These are thin, opaque cotton curtains like she had at -

She sits up straight, eyes widening.

Like she had at that old, too big farmhouse in the afterlife.

She kept the window in the bedroom open most of the time and the permanently warm breeze would waft through the open window and rustle the curtains. It was nice. Peaceful, even.

Laurel rises to her feet. Those curtains should not be here. She approaches the window slowly, moving toward it hesitantly. She's not sure what she's afraid of, but she is afraid. She turns to throw a look over her shoulder. It's the same house it's always been. Small, cozy, cluttered, lived in, whatever you want to call it this is home. She's still here, in her house, alive.

She steps over to the window. She pulls the curtains back to peek out the window. Everything is calm outside. The porchlight is on. The streetlights are glowing. Everything is in it's place. Everything, that is, except for the little boy standing on the front lawn.

Laurel jumps back as soon as she sees him, curtains falling shut. Her heart hammers against her ribcage. ''Oh god,'' she gets out. ''Oh my god.'' She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. ''This isn't possible,'' she says firmly. ''This is a dream. This isn't possible.'' She has to be dreaming. She yanks back the curtains again, far less hesitant this time, and there he is. Still standing on the front law, back to the house, still as a statue.

Henry.

She knows she should think twice about this. It's not possible. It could be a trick. It has to be a trick. There is no other explanation. She doesn't think twice. She unlocks the door, throws it open, and steps out onto the front stoop. She doesn't even bother with a coat or shoes. ''Henry?''

Very slowly, he turns around to look at her and it's him. The little boy she loved and lost. The one she can't even be sure was real. He's wearing the pajamas with the spaceships on them that he used to wear every night until he outgrew them. He has her nose. He has his dad's eyes and strong jaw. She taught him how to swim. She told him stories every night. She left him behind.

He looks at her silently, pale in the moonlight, and then he turns away from her and walks away.

''Wait! Henry!'' She hurries down the front steps and races down the pathway to catch up to him but he is deceptively fast. Unusually so. He's already turning the corner to the next street by the time her feet hit the sidewalk. ''Henry!'' She runs after him, the concrete cold on her bare feet. When she turns the corner, the sidewalk is empty and he's gone. She spins in a circle, eyes scanning the darkened streets for any sign of him. There's nothing. She's lost him. Again.

She closes her eyes, raking both hands through her hair. She's losing her mind. She's completely coming undone. That has to be it. He can't be here. He can't. There's no way. He's... He probably wasn't even real, how could he be here with her? She didn't bring him with her when she came back. She knows that. She would have felt it.

She opens her eyes and glances around her surroundings. She should get back inside before anyone sees her. Reluctantly, she trudges back to the house and up the path. She stops halfway to the front steps. She turns back around to look at the empty street.

Nothing moves.

There's not even a breeze. It's not raining. It's not even that cold out. She looks at the house to the left where the Denton family lives. They never keep the porch light on but they leave a lamp on in the living room to ''deter burglars.'' Across the street, she can see the red blinking light in the Henderson's pitch black dining room that means their alarm is on. It's quiet here: safe, calm, and normal. There is no danger. There is no little boy wandering the streets. She looks down at the grass. He didn't even leave footprints on the grass.

''Mommy!'' The tiny voice is a trembling and frightened sob that rips through the calm. ''Mommy, please!''

''Mary?'' Laurel whirls around at the sound of her daughter's scared yelp and this icy rush of horror overtakes her entire body when she sees her daughter. Mary is standing in the doorway of the house, crying and petrified.

Damien Darhk is standing behind her with one hand gripping Mary's shoulder tightly and the other holding an arrow, ready to strike. He smiles when he sees her. She remembers that cold, cruel smile. He laughs and her body goes numb. ''Hello, Laurel,'' he says, and then she watches the glinting point of the arrow slam into her daughter's lung.

And then she wakes up.

Her eyes snap open, muscles tensing, and she is back in her own bedroom. A breath of air leaves her lungs in a whoosh and she closes her eyes, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling. It was just a dream. Okay. Okay. She can deal with that. She brings a trembling hand to her forehead. Just a dream.

She looks over at Dean, passed out on his stomach with his arms curled protectively around his pillow. She relaxes a tiny bit. That's better. In her dream, he had his back to her. He never sleeps with his back to her. She should have known something was wrong. She closes her eyes. And what kind of weirdo worries about the cost of an urgent care visit in a dream? If that is not a reflection on how deeply broken the US healthcare system is...

It was just a dream. Of course it was. Darhk is dead. She's safe. Still, though. Better safe than sorry. Laurel pulls the covers back and swings her feet over the edge of the bed.

Dean stirs the moment she crawls out of bed and opens his eyes. ''Laur?''

''Go back to sleep, love,'' she murmurs, reaching out to pat his leg. ''I'm just going to the bathroom.''

She spends a minute or two looking for her robe, which should be draped over the back of the chair at her vanity but is nowhere to be found. The house feels unusually chilly so she fishes one of Dean's flannel shirts out of the hamper and throws it on.

She tip toes out of the bedroom and goes straight to Mary's room. She pushes the door open, pokes her head in, and instantly spots her. She is fast asleep on her bed, splayed out on her stomach in a mirror image of her dad. The only difference is that she only has one arm curled around her pillow. The other is clutching her stuffed shark. Laurel lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her girl is safe and sound. She smiles to herself, relieved, and ducks her head out of the room.

She does a quick check on Thea in her bedroom and Sara asleep on the couch, turns up the thermostat to warm up the cold house, and then she heads into the kitchen. She tries to be as quiet as possible as she takes a glass down from the cupboard and holds it under the tap. She sips at the water as she makes her way back to the master bedroom, avoiding the creaky floorboard in the hallway. She slips back into the bedroom, careful to leave the door open a crack in case Mary needs them. She turns back to the bed. The empty bed.

She stops in her tracks. She doesn't remember hearing Dean get up. Her grip on the glass of water in her hand tightens nervously. The house hasn't warmed up at all. She's shivering under the flannel and she knows it's crazy but she swears she can even see her breath. She can't even hear the heat running. She can't hear anything at all. Not the ticking of the clock or the creaks and groans of the old house or even the sound of Joanie and Phil Rourke's lovable but neurotic dog that's usually barking at this time of night.

Everything is dark, cold, and eerily silent.

She doesn't know where her husband is. Laurel turns around to get to the door because she needs to get out and immediately runs into a sickening familiar body. The glass of water slips out of her grasp. It shatters instantly upon impact with the hardwood floor and sends water splashing up her legs. The next thing she knows, there is a hand closed around her neck, squeezing tighter and tighter until she can't breathe. She tries to fight back, clawing at the arm, trying to pry it from her throat but he's too strong. She doesn't remember him being this strong.

''Now, Ms. Lance,'' Darhk says with a grin. ''You didn't think I was _really_ gone, did you?''

He doesn't give her a chance to answer. He doesn't give her a chance at all. There is an explosion of pain in her right side when the tip of the arrow pierces through her skin, pushing through flesh and muscle to get to her lung. She gasps in pain, tears springing to her eyes as she feels the all too familiar feeling of blood in her throat. The blood bubbles through her lips and down her chin, choking her now like it choked her then. He twists the arrow for good measure, just to make sure it hurts as much as possible, and when she cries out, he releases his hold on her throat. She collapses to the ground, gurgling and gasping. She weakly presses her hand to the wound around the arrow. He's still there, standing quietly in front of her.

She still doesn't know where her husband is, but she hopes he doesn't come back to this. She doesn't want him to have to watch her die again.

He crouches down in front of her and when she looks up at him, it's not Damien Darhk she's looking at. She stares at him through blurry eyes, gasping wetly. ''O-Ollie?''

''I don't know why you're surprised,'' he says softly. ''It was always going to be me, Laurel.''

The tears spill over, streaking down her cheeks. The thing is. The thing is she knew that. She did. She has known for a long time. She was always going to die for him. But it shouldn't have to happen twice. ''Oliver,'' she chokes his name out around the blood. ''Ollie, wait, please...''

''Consider this a favor,'' he tells her. He's wearing his Green Arrow suit, face shrouded by the hood and the darkness of the room. His voice is low and completely calm. He doesn't even sound sorry about the blood in her mouth. She wants to crawl away from him but her body is in shock and she can't move. ''It's not like you want to be here anymore than we want you here,'' he says, matter-of-fact, and her eyes widen. ''You tried to leave before, didn't you? What makes now any different?''

He leans in close to her, wraps his hand around the arrow in her side, and pulls.

She screams -

And wakes up.

She bolts upright in the dark, sobbing. She knows she's really awake this time because the first thing she hears is Dean's voice. He's saying her name over and over, trying to reach her over her hysterical sobs. She can feel his hands on her but all she can concentrate on is the excruciating pain in her side. She can still feel the arrow. How it felt when it went in, when it was twisted, and when it was yanked out. She can taste the blood in her mouth. She can feel it in the back of her throat and in between her fingers. It's not there. None of it is there. There is no blood. There is no arrow.

''Laurel,'' Dean sounds frantic. ''Laurel, hey, sweetheart, you're okay. It was just a dream.'' He places his hand over her hand that's clutching at her side. ''You're not hurt.''

She tries to move in the direction of his voice, through the fog.

''It was just a dream,'' he says again, bringing his hands up to cup her cheeks. ''You're safe.''

She is doing everything she can to breathe through this before it turns into a panic attack. It's not real. She knows it's not real. It's all in her head. But it felt so real. It was such a vivid dream. She didn't have nightmares that vivid before April. Not ever. Even pregnancy dreams weren't this bad. This was so clear. It was so detailed. She squeezes her eyes shut. She needs to calm down. The pain is not real. She works on her belly breathing, drawing in deep breaths through her nose and releasing them through her mouth.

When Dean moves his hands from her face, she grabs onto his hand, holding onto it tightly. She does manage to avoid a full fledged panic attack by keeping her breathing going until she finds a rhythm that gets enough air into her lungs but the physical pain remains. It's not quite as strong as it was but it still leaves her grimacing and squirming. She presses a shaky hand to her side again just to double check that there's no blood. ''Dean,'' her voice sounds breathless and high-pitched. ''Can you check - Can you check...?''

He doesn't say anything but he lets her squeeze his hand while he reaches over with the other to move the covers and gently lift her shirt up to check the scar.

A few nights ago, while they were driving home from Central City, she told him about the pain she had experienced earlier that night. She brushed it off as phantom pain. Told him it was probably psychological because she had been thinking about it. He hadn't taken it well. He had been unexpectedly panicked. She hadn't expected that reaction. In the days since, he has been almost obsessively paranoid about her health. Every time she so much as sighs, he's at her side, telling her to sit down and relax. Maybe she shouldn't have told him. She hates to worry him.

''You're all good,'' he says, lowering her shirt. ''No blood.''

She nods but doesn't open her eyes right away. She's still focusing on keeping her breathing going. Reluctantly, she lets go of his hand and rests back against the headboard. She tries to keep the pain off her face. When she does eventually open her eyes, she blinks and tries to adjust her eyes to the darkness.

Dean is looking at her worriedly, wide awake despite the time. ''Laurel - ''

''I'm fine,'' she cuts him off. ''It was just another nightmare.'' She looks over his shoulder at the alarm clock on his bedside table, squinting to look at the time. It's four thirty in the morning. His alarm clock is going to start going off at six forty five. He won't get out of bed until at least seven, probably fifteen after, but he should still be sleeping right now. She has no idea what being a mechanic entails for the most part but he should be well rested for it. ''I'm okay,'' she says.

He does not look overly convinced of her okay-ness.

''I'm okay,'' she says again, firmer this time. ''Really.'' She sniffles and reaches over to grab her glass of water from the nightstand, taking a few slow sips. ''You should go back to sleep. You have work in a few hours.''

He doesn't seem at all concerned about that. ''I'm fine,'' he says, flippant.

''You can't go to work sleep deprived,'' she says, pushing her hair out of her face. She puts the glass back on the table and grabs a tissue to wipe away the tears on her cheeks.

''It's not that big of a deal.''

''But what if you're too tired to pay attention and something bad happens? You need your reflexes to be in tiptop shape or you could be crushed.''

He tilts his head to the side, wrinkling his nose. ''Crushed? What? What is it you think I do?''

''It's that thing. You know,'' she tosses the tissue back on the nightstand and gestures wildly. ''That thing with the car. It raises it up in the air.''

''The car lift?''

She frowns. ''That's seriously all it's called?''

''Uh,'' he shrugs, ''Eddie calls it the hoister thing sometimes?''

''That's...'' She shakes her head. ''No. Not the point. What if the car falls on you?''

''That would never...'' He blinks at her, dumbfounded. ''...Happen?''

''But how do you _know_?''

''Because the entire hydraulic system would have to fail for that to happen. And I would have to be standing right underneath the car.''

''What if the car bounces?''

He closes his eyes and sighs heavily.

''Be honest with me,'' she says seriously. ''Is it completely and totally 100% impossible for the hydraulic system to fail?''

He rubs at his forehead tiredly. ''...No.''

''And has that ever happened at Eddie's before?''

Dean looks at her for an unnervingly long time and then snaps his jaw shut and lies back down. ''You're right,'' he says, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. ''I should get some sleep.''

''Oh my god.'' Her eyes widen. ''Oh my god, it has! I was just being dramatic! I didn't think it was a real risk! Dean!'' She pokes at his shoulder. ''You could be crushed by a flying car!''

''Laurel,'' he whispers. ''Babe, you're shouting. The girls are sleeping.''

''The girls know to ignore our dramatics,'' she says, but lowers her voice.

'' _Our_ dramatics,'' he mumbles under his breath. ''Sure.'' He rolls onto his back. ''All right, first of all,'' he says, looking up at her. ''The car wouldn't fly. Cars can't fly.''

''They did in Furious 7.''

''Yes, and it was amazing, but not realistic. Second of all...'' He pauses, grimaces a little, and then admits, with another sigh, ''There was an incident with the hydraulic lift about fifteen years ago - ''

''Oh my _god!_ What kind of chop shop death trap are you working in!?''

'' - But nobody was injured, they did a complete overhaul, and there hasn't been an issue since.''

Laurel crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at him, grumbling to herself about dangerous jobs. She releases a long suffering sigh and then slowly lies back down. It still hurts, but the pain is definitely lessening. ''I can't believe my husband's going to be crushed to death,'' she mutters. ''What am I supposed to tell Mary when you inevitably become just a pair of boots and a pile of goo?''

''Tell her that I hope her expensive fancy ass preschool was freakin' worth it,'' he says.

She gasps and reaches over to swat at his shoulder. ''Dean!''

The entire bed is shaking with his laughter. ''It's not going to happen,'' he says once he's sobered. ''The garage passed a safety inspection less than a month ago.''

''Fine,'' she says, reluctantly letting go of the possibility of him being flattened at work. She scoots closer to him and admits, softly, ''It's possible I might be a little on edge.''

''You don't say,'' he remarks, but doesn't tease her or anything. He wraps an arm around her and when she curls into him, he drops a kiss to the top of her head. ''Darhk or the grave?'' He asks, after a couple of minute of silence.

She thinks of Henry. It's still hard to talk about him with Dean. Henry was their son, but he also wasn't. Dean never knew him. Never even got a chance. She's not sure he ever will. She thinks of Darhk; him going after Mary, driving that arrow into her lung. She thinks of Oliver hovering over her, unapologetic. _It's not like you want to be here anymore than we want you here_ , he said. She can still hear his voice echoing in her head. He said it so calmly, so easily, like it was just a fact. _You tried to leave before, didn't you?_ But it was just a dream. He would never say those things to her. And he would certainly never know to use February, 2014 against her. It was just a dream. There's no reason to dwell on it.

''Iron Heights,'' she lies. ''It was Iron Heights again.''

''He's gone, you know,'' he reminds her, careful to keep his voice low. ''I made sure of it.''

''I know,'' she nods. She tries to take comfort in that. Darhk is gone. That should make her feel better. But he'll never _really_ be gone. Not as long as she has this scar. Not as long as she remembers the way it felt to die. She closes her eyes. She doesn't want to think about that. She rests her head on Dean's chest and listens to the sound of his steady heartbeat while he plays with her hair. She tries to relax. She opens her eyes after a moment, scanning the bedroom quickly. It's not as scary in this quiet darkness. Not as foreboding as in her dream. She can hear the rain drizzling down outside and the creaks and groans of the old house and the old pipes. It's like a comforting lullaby.

The pain in her side begins to ease up.

''I should've known it was a dream right away,'' she says tiredly, letting her eyes drift shut again. ''You never put your clothes in the hamper.''

He has no response to that. She thinks he might have fallen asleep but when she opens one eye to peer up at him, he's blinking up at the ceiling and he looks very confused. ''...What?''

''Never mind.'' She burrows even closer to him, burying her face in his shirt to hide her smile. ''Hey.''

''Hmm?''

''Tell me a joke.''

''A joke.''

''Yeah.''

''It's almost five in the morning.''

''So? You've always got jokes.''

''I _am_ funny,'' he allows.

She chuckles warmly. ''I think so.''

''I'm glad you think so. That's why I married you.''

''That's interesting,'' she murmurs. ''I married you because you can cook.''

''I have no problem with that,'' he says. ''You'd have scurvy without me. You'd be living off of cereal.''

''Excuse me, do you have a problem with my Fruit Loops?''

She can feel his chest rumble with silent laughter. ''All right,'' he says. ''You want a joke. Can I tell you the story of when I heard the best joke ever told?''

She raises her eyebrows. ''You can, but it better live up to the hype.''

''The day before Mary's birthday,'' he begins. ''I told her we were having a special day, just me and her, and we could do anything she wanted. One of the things she wanted to do was go out for waffles so I took her out for waffles.''

''She is definitely your daughter.''

''Are you about to start pushing your anti waffle agenda?''

She draws away from him and pushes herself up onto her elbow. ''Well, I'm sorry,'' she says, even though she's really not, ''but pancakes are the superior breakfast food and you can't change that.''

''Now, hold on a minute,'' he holds up a finger. ''Bacon is the superior breakfast food.''

''Meh.''

''And waffles are unquestionably better than pancakes. _Unquestionably_ , Laurel.''

''Nah, they're just okay.''

''Waffles have holes!'' He bursts out. ''They're like warm little pockets that hold butter, syrup, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, caramel - ''

''Diabetes...''

''It's like eating little treasure chests full of sweet, sweet glory. They - They're glory holes!''

Laurel would like to state, for the record, that she is a mature person and does not dissolve into hysterical laughter when he says that. She only loses it when she watches the realization dawn on him.

It's a slow burn.

His eyes widen in something akin to horror, he sighs heavily, closes his eyes tight, and says, ''I wish I had said something different.''

And then she laughs until she cries. ''Was...Was that your joke?'' She manages to wheeze out through her hysterics.

''It's late,'' he whines.

She collapses into a boneless heap, pulling herself over to him so she can laugh into the crook of his neck. ''You know,'' she manages to get out in between peals of laughter. ''This could've been avoided if you had just agreed with me.''

''Never,'' he hisses out passionately. ''I'd rather die.''

''Oh man,'' she says, leaning over to kiss him on the lips quickly. ''I hope our marriage will survive this divide.''

He laughs, his entire face lighting up in amusement, eyes crinkling. It's such a welcome sight. ''So can I continue with my story or what?''

''Yes, please continue.''

''Thank you. Finally. Where was I?''

''You took Mary out for hot garbage.'' He shoots her a flat look and does that thing with his eyebrows that make him look extremely unimpressed.

''Sorry,'' she says, offering him a bright smile. ''Last one, I promise.''

'' _Anyway_ , as I was saying, I took Mary out for waffles,'' he says pointedly, and then pauses dramatically. She mimics zipping her lips shut for his peace of mind. ''You know how they serve waffles with those globs of butter on top?''

''Yeah.''

''She took one look at it, got this huge smile on her face, and said ''Daddy, guess what?'' So I said ''what'' and she said ''you're my butter half'' and then giggled for like five minutes straight.''

There is about a three second long stretch of silence and then Laurel bursts into laughter again.

''And it was the best joke I've ever heard,'' he declares. ''She was so proud of herself.''

''It's a really good joke,'' she laughs. ''I'm proud of her too. Her first joke.''

''She's gonna be a comedian,'' he says. ''That one joke was funnier than anything Amy Schumer has ever done.''

Laurel snorts. She curls back into him, winding her arms around his neck. The pain in her side is almost completely gone now, chased away by the laughter and the lighthearted mood. She hopes that's a good sign. Maybe it means it was just all in her head. Her nightmare feels farther away now. She feels safe. Although wide awake. She doesn't think she's going to be getting to sleep anytime soon. She looks at her husband. He doesn't look especially tired anymore either.

Hmm. Interesting. ''Hey,'' she says. ''If I tell you to take your pants off, would you do it?''

He looks down at her with raised eyebrows.

''Oh, it's for sex,'' she adds. ''Just to clarify.''

''Awww,'' he pats her head. ''You're not good at seduction.''

''Ugh,'' she groans. ''We're married. I thought I didn't have to do that anymore.''

She can't tell if he finds that funny or endearing but he chuckles and scoots closer to her, placing one hand on her face tenderly and leaning in to kiss the side of her mouth softly. It's true, though. She is not good at being a seductress. She's honestly not even that great at being seduced. She is uncharacteristically awkward about it. She's been told she's blunt. She prefers to skip the flirting and get right to it. She's good at that part. All the physical aspects of sex, she can do. She would like to put that out there. She's fucking great at foreplay. It's just the romance of it.

She didn't used to be like this. She used to try harder at romance. It was never appreciated all that much in...a past relationship of hers. A certain ex of hers was too impatient for that. She's managed to get over most of her insecurities over the years but there are still little things that pop up every now and then. Like this. Sometimes there's just that voice in the back of her head that's telling her if she wastes too much time on pointless seduction then Dean will get bored, decide she's not worth the wait, and look elsewhere the way. It's a dumb worry. She knows that. Dean won't look elsewhere. And he's always said that he thinks her bluntness is ''charming.'' She got lucky with this one.

''The answer is yes, by the way,'' he says. ''I would take my pants off for you without question.''

She reluctantly pulls away from him to sit up. ''See,'' she winks at him, reaching over to cup his cheek briefly. ''Now that's love.''

''Related fun fact,'' he chirps, suddenly cheerful. ''I can get undressed in 2.5 seconds.''

''What? No, you can't.''

''Yes, I can,'' he says, defiant. He starts to pull the covers back. ''Time me.''

She feels that as a thirty-one year old mature adult, she should have some reservations about the juvenile idea of timing her husband getting naked but honestly... She really doesn't. ''Okay!'' She grins, pushing herself up onto her knees. Then she catches sight of the door. ''Oh shit, wait.'' She climbs off the bed and scampers over to the door. They tend to leave it open a crack so they can hear Mary call out for them if she needs them but she's thinking it might be best to close it for this. She closes and locks the door, turns back to her husband, and then - ''Good lord!'' She claps both hands over her mouth and she physically cannot help but burst into giggles.

''Ha!'' Dean, standing there stark naked, points a victorious finger at her. ''I told you.''

''Oh my god, why is that a skill you have?!''

''Um.'' He looks at her as if it's obvious. ''Clothes are the worst, Laurel.''

''Oh.'' She considers that. ''Fair.''

''I think the better question,'' he says, ''is how have we been together for seven years – ''

''Six and a half. You always round up.''

'' – Without you noticing that I'm a speedy undresser''

''Certainly a classier way of saying 'I get naked fast,'' she comments. ''But I see your point. I guess I never…paid that much attention to how fast you get undressed?''

''Well, whatever. Your turn,'' he says, propping his hands up on his hips. ''How fast can you get naked?''

She throws her head back and laughs again. This is the most she's laughed since she came back. This honestly might be the most she's laughed in one night in a long time. She forgets sometimes, with all the chaos and the drama and the death, how fun it is to be married to him. No one's ever made her laugh the way he does. ''Is this what you imagined marriage would be like?''

He steps over to her and tucks a finger in the waistband of her little red and black plaid pajama shorts to gently tug her over to him. ''Sweetheart, this is almost exactly what I imagined marriage would be like,'' he says, and then cuts off her giggles with a kiss. ''You have to admit you're a little impressed.''

''Yes, honey,'' she chuckles against his lips. ''You're very good at getting naked.''

''Thank you.'' He steps back and spreads his arms out wide, looking at her expectantly. ''Join me, won't you? I'm gettin' lonely standing here all naked by myself.''

''Oh, right, sorry.'' She shimmies out of her shorts and pulls her shirt over her head. It still somehow takes her longer than 2.5 seconds. It's a good thing that Dean takes a moment to appreciate her naked body because it gives her time to pump her fist up in the air and triumphantly shout, ''I call top!''

He looks startled, blinking and then frowning. ''What? Wait, you can't just - '' He breaks off in a surprised grunt when she launches herself at him and tackles him back onto the bed. ''Well,'' he murmurs as she starts peppering slow kisses to his jawline. ''All right. Fine. I can get on board with this.'' He moves his hands to her hips as she straddles him. ''But, listen,'' he adds on, holding up a hand, ''this means you have to hold the headboard if it starts banging against the wall.''

''Deal,'' she says, and leans down to catch his lips in hers.

.

.

.

 **June, 2014**

 _The good news is that Mary seems to be in a super cheerful mood today, which hopefully means she's going to be a delightful buffer at this barbeque. When Laurel opens the door to the backseat, Mary throws her hands up in the air and says, happily, ''Hi!''_

 _Laurel can't help but grin back. ''Hi, honeybee!''_

 _The bad news is that Mary's nice dress is now covered in a strawberry kiwi yogurt popsicle. In hindsight, the white dress was a mistake. The idea had been to put her in the dress that Grandma bought her so that she would at least get to see her great granddaughter in it once before Mary inevitably grows out of it at lightning speed. A nice thought, but Laurel had failed to account for the popsicles._

 _''Oh, kiddo,'' she sighs, eyeing Mary's strawberry stained dress. ''Did you at least enjoy your popsicle? Because it looks like you got most of it on your dress.'' She reaches out to wipe a bit of red off the side of Mary's mouth. ''Was it yummy?''_

 _''Yes!''_

 _She laughs. ''Okay then. I guess it was worth it.'' She looks up when the opposite door opens. ''I mean, it was just fruit and yogurt, right? There are worse things Grandma could've given her.''_

 _''Makes sense she would like Bea's popsicles,'' Dean says. ''They were all you would eat during the first trimester.''_

 _''They were all I could keep down in the first trimester,'' Laurel corrects. She unbuckles Mary from her car seat and lifts her up into her arms, looking over her sticky little girl. ''Oh yeah, you're going to need an outfit change.''_

 _''You know,'' Dean says as she's moving around to the back of the SUV to lift up the hatchback for some privacy. She recognizes the tone of his voice. That's the 'you know' that usually comes right before he launches into one of his many strange stories. ''Back in 2005, I got a call from Pastor Jim telling me to get my ass down to New Orleans because everything was going to shit.'' He grabs the flower arrangement they just picked up from the backseat. ''Turns out Katrina had stirred up all sorts of crap. I was there for over a month working back to back cases. I don't even remember sleeping.''_

 _''That's concerning,'' Laurel remarks, pausing in her attempts to strip Mary down just long enough to send him a quick raised eyebrow. ''But I guess it's nice to know you were so accomplished at your profession and in demand at the young age of twenty six.'' She reaches over to pat him on the shoulder as soon as he's close enough. ''Proud of you!''_

 _She can't see his eyes through the sunglasses on his face but he's grinning at her, clearly trying not to laugh. He places the flower arrangement - white and purple tulips - next to the boxes of baked goods from Carlyle's. ''One of the cases I took on was this poltergeist,'' he goes on. ''Real piece of work. He'd killed his entire family back in the late 1920s. He was cremated and all of his belongings had been shipped back to...Poland, I think? I had no idea how to deal with him but this voodoo priestess I was working with suggested summoning his family. They showed up and dragged him down to hell kicking and screaming.''_

 _Laurel stares at him. She has no idea what the purpose of that story was. ''Okay?''_

 _''His daughter,'' Dean says, ''was this tiny blonde thing wearing a white dress all covered in blood. Scared the crap out of me.'' He looks at Mary standing in the back of the SUV in nothing but her diaper. Then he looks at her white Easter dress covered in red. Then he looks at Laurel. ''Don't know what could've made me think of that.''_

 _She shakes her head at him, chuckling quietly. ''You're going to be an awesome old person,'' she says, rifling around in the diaper bag for the baby wipes._

 _He reaches into the bag without even looking and produces the wipes in about a second and a half. ''...Thank you?''_

 _''You tell rambling stories that go on forever and are only marginally related to the current situation,'' she explains, before she tears open the package of wipes with her teeth._

 _He bursts into laughter. Like instant full body cackling. It seems to be contagious because Mary instantly starts giggling along with him for no reason other than her dad is laughing. She's so busy laughing that she doesn't even bother to fight and squirm when Laurel wipes the popsicle off her face and hands. ''I'll take that as a compliment,'' he says._

 _Once she's satisfied that her daughter is no longer a sticky popsicle fiend, Laurel digs around in the bag for the remaining two outfits she packed. She holds them up for Mary. ''What do you think? Pajamas or sundress?''_

 _Mary, still giggling to herself about nothing, is far more interested in her belly button to answer that question. Also, there's a good chance she didn't even hear her. Tired of standing, she plonks herself down almost on top of her soiled dress and starts to crawl over to the tulips with another squeaky, ''Hiiii! Pretty flowers, Mama!''_

 _Effortlessly, Dean intercepts her grabby hands to offer her the lamb lovey that he must have pulled from thin air because he is secretly a wizard dad or something. She positively lights up when she sees it, taking it from him enthusiastically and cuddling it close to her chest. She giggles again, rubbing the soft fleece of the blanket part against her cheek. She stares up at him and he grins back. He signs,_ You're welcome.

 _Mary signs back,_ Dad.

 _He throws his head back and laughs again before leaning in to kiss her cheek. ''Good enough.''_

 _She is still smiling and laughing happily. She's always laughing. Laurel has never known a gigglier baby. She's never known any other babies but the point still stands. She smiles softly to herself, even though she has to admit that she sometimes feels left out when she watches those two interact. ''Let's go with the sundress. It's cooler,'' she decides, only to immediately pause and rethink her decision. ''Wait, what if she hates dresses?'' She looks over at Dean with wide eyes. ''What if she hates dresses and I'm stifling her feelings by forcing her into gendered clothing that makes her uncomfortable?''_

 _Dean looks at her for a long time. ''Laurel, she's one.''_

 _''She's nineteen months.''_

 _''The other day she put a bowl on her head and sang a song about her new hat.''_

 _''Aww, she did? You didn't tell me that.''_

 _''I don't think she cares about clothing options yet.''_

 _''All right,'' she sighs. ''Maybe I'm overthinking it.'' She's overthinking a lot of things today. It is, in fact, fairly easy to get Mary into the yellow sundress. She's pretty chill about it. There is some mild consternation when Laurel has to take the lovey from her for a second so she can pull the dress over her head but the fuss is minimal._

 _''When you were invited to this barbeque,'' Dean's voice drawls out. ''Were you also asked to cater it?''_

 _''No.''_

 _''Then can I ask why you decided to buy out Carlyle's?''_

 _She blows out a breath, pausing in her attempts to shove the used wipes into a leftover brown paper bag from the grocery store. She looks over at him, watching him poke through the stack of pink bakery boxes in bewilderment. ''I know,'' she grimaces. ''It's a little excessive.''_

 _He shoots her an incredulous look. ''A little?''_

 _''I panicked, okay?'' She tosses the last of the wipes into the bag and lifts Mary up onto her hip. ''Normally I would bring wine to a dinner party but that ship has sailed so - ''_

 _''So you decided to bring an entire bakery?'' Tentatively, he lifts the lid off one of the boxes. ''What did you get?''_

 _She stuffs the package of wipes and Mary's pajamas into the diaper bag with one hand. ''Assorted cupcakes, chocolate chip cookies, mini quiches and mini sausage rolls, and soft pretzels because that's what they're known for.''_

 _Dean grabs the box off to the side. ''What's this one?''_

 _''That,'' she says, struggling to zip up the diaper bag with one hand, ''is a chocolate cream pie and it's for us. I need you to get it home and into the fridge ASAP.''_

 _''You bought us a chocolate cream pie from Carlyle's?''_

 _''I did.''_

 _He stares at her with what can only be described as heart eyes. ''Laur?''_

 _''Hmm?''_

 _''You are the sexiest you've ever been right now.''_

 _''Thank you.'' She steps into his space to scratch lightly at the scruff that he's been too lazy to shave lately. ''That's kind of you to say.''_

 _Mary takes advantage of the close proximity to Dean to reach her arms out to him and squawk repeatedly, ''Up, thank you! Up, thank you!'' At least she's polite about it._

 _''Boy, is she ever going to be pissed when you leave and it's just her, boring old mom, and a bunch of strangers,'' Laurel comments, transferring Mary over to him._

 _''Don't be so hard on yourself,'' Dean says. ''You're not old.'' When she sends him a look, he just snickers. ''This is exactly why I should stay.''_

 _In all honesty, she would love that. She's not exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of going to this team barbeque. She generally enjoys parties and she likes to think she's good with people but this is filling her with anxiety. She would much prefer to have Dean by her side. At least she would have someone to talk to. It's just...so not a good idea to have Dean and Oliver in the same room for too long. Not right now anyway._

 _''I love you,'' she says, ''but you know that's a terrible idea.''_

 _Dean doesn't disagree but he sighs heavily, leaning down to kiss the top of Mary's head. She lets go of her lovey, almost dropping it, looks up at him with one of her big smiles and then, with her clumsy, still learning hands, she signs,_ Cookie.

 _''Is that why you wanted me?'' He asks, laughing. ''Think you made a mistake there, pumpkin. Your mom's way more likely to give you a cookie than me.'' He signs, clearly and concisely,_ No. Sorry.

 _She looks highly offended. ''No,'' she says, grabbing Dean's face in her hands. ''No, Daddy. Cookie,'' she says emphatically as if the problem is simply that he didn't understand her._

 _''I know what you said,'' he tells her. ''I just said no. You've already had two popsicles.''_

 _Mary flops against him dramatically, hiding her face in his shoulder._

 _Laurel looks at the contents of the trunk. Felicity's going to think she's trying to move in with her. She eyes the boxes doubtfully. ''Do you think this is too much?'' She asks. ''Maybe this is too much. I don't want to seem desperate or like I'm flaunting having money.''_

 _''Uh, we don't have money,'' he reminds her. ''You blew over half our grocery budget on this.''_

 _She opts to ignore that. Suddenly, she has a horrible thought. ''Oh god, do you think mini quiches are pretentious?''_

 _He looks at her like she's lost her mind. ''I don't even know how to respond to that.''_

 _''Maybe the soft pretzels are too much,'' she worries, wringing her hands. ''Who brings soft pretzels to a barbeque? That seems strange. That's strange, right?''_

 _''What's happening right now?''_

 _''I'm...'' She twists the rings on her fingers. ''I might be nervous.''_

 _''I noticed that,'' he says, reaching out to calmly place a hand over hers to get her to stop twisting at her fingers. ''Why? I've never seen you nervous about going to a party. This is - what? A backyard barbeque with less than a handful of people? This is nothing. You'll be in your element.''_

 _''This is different.''_

 _''Why?''_

 _''I just...'' She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ''I don't think these people like me very much.''_

 _She's been avoiding that particular truth. Oliver is...Oliver. She never knows what she's going to get with him. Either he'll be a friend or he'll be the guy who seems to get a kick out of making her feel about two inches tall. There is no in between these days. But she can handle him. It's the rest of his associates that she's worried about. They haven't exactly been the most welcoming bunch. They haven't been rude, but there's some frostiness there. She's been working with them as a legal consultant, helping them with the crooks they catch and pointing them in the direction of others, ever since Slade Wilson was defeated and none of them seem to want her in their secret clubhouse._

 _At first, she thought it was her. She'd been pretty gung ho about joining their operation in the beginning. Her father was in the hospital in awful shape, Sara was off with a bunch of assassins, and she needed a distraction. It was entirely possible she had been too aggressive in her desire to be a part of things. So she backed off, dropped her enthusiasm, and let them do their thing. It didn't help. They'll never say it to her face and they'll always be polite, but they aren't interested in being friends with her and they don't seem to want her around._

 _Laurel can't be 100% sure but she thinks the only reason she was even invited to this barbeque is because she walked in on them talking about it and Felicity felt like she had to invite her._

 _''Why do you care?'' Dean asks, which is...not the reaction she had been expecting._

 _She turns her eyes to him. ''What?''_

 _He shrugs, completely unconcerned. ''Why do you care? These people willingly work for some rich dude who runs around at night wearing head to toe green leather and shooting people full of arrows,'' he says dryly. ''Arrows, Laurel. And they're all just like 'oh, okay, this is normal.' Their judgment is skewed.''_

 _Laurel tries not to smile. ''He's not rich anymore, actually. Slade Wilson drained his accounts. By the way, I'm a consultant for them now, which technically means I also work for - ''_

 _''With,'' he cuts in, holding a hand up. ''You work with him. Not for him.'' He steps closer to her. He tugs lightly at the cream-colored slouchy loose knit sweater she threw on over the pink paisley maxi dress that he took one look at earlier and said_ You're several decades too late for Woodstock, flower child _. ''Besides,'' he says. ''Your judgment is also seriously skewed. You married me.'' He leans in to kiss her on the lips softly. She deepens the kiss, an instinct at this point, bringing one hand to the back of his neck. ''A horrible decision, really,'' he mumbles against her lips._

 _She laughs into his mouth and has to pull away. ''I don't know about that,'' she says, wiping a bit of lipstick off his mouth with her thumb. She glances at Mary, still on Dean's hip, still clutching her lovey, too busy sucking on her fingers to care about her parents' PDA. ''It's worked out awesome for me so far,'' Laurel comments lightly. ''You cook, you clean, you take care of the baby, you quote Disney movies, and,'' she covers Mary's ear, ''you give me multiple orgasms.''_

 _''Also,'' he winks. ''I have a nice ass.''_

 _''I like it.''_

 _''Like not love?''_

 _''I love it.''_

 _''Love not adore?''_

 _''Let's not go overboard.''_

 _He laughs and leans in to kiss her again, just a quick peck on the lips this time. This, apparently, is one kiss too many for Mary because that's when she decides to start squirming and whining to be put down. Unfortunately for her, she hasn't been able to master walking quite yet. She was on her way, progressing at a relatively normal rate, and then the hearing in her right ear started to go. It's about 80% gone at this point. It was a slow fade, one they knew was probably coming, and they were told that it would probably affect her balance but it has really affected her balance._

 _Dean puts her down on the sidewalk, she manages about three unsteady steps, and then she just wobbles and flops down on her butt. Immediately, her good mood seems to evaporate. Her bottom lip starts trembling and she looks up at him helplessly._

 _Laurel expects him to sweep Mary up into his arms and make her laugh. Instead, his face just kind of falls, even though he's obviously trying not to let it show. She moves quickly, snapping into action and scooping her daughter up into her arms. ''That was a good try, Mary,'' she murmurs into her good ear. Then, to Dean, she says, ''Can you grab the boxes?'' She pats him on the shoulder, moving her hand up to his neck reassuringly when she sees the flicker of guilt in his eyes._

 _Mary's diagnosis is old news at this point. It's just the way things are. They have, for the most part, come to terms with that. Doesn't mean they don't both have their moments. The ones where it slams into them like a Mack truck that - oh yeah, their kid's life is going to be harder. It's usually her having those moments. She's willing to give him this one. He's earned a singular moment after dealing with her constant crap over this past year._

 _She manages to get both the diaper bag and her purse slung over her shoulder with the flowers tucked into the crook of her arm and Mary on her other hip. She only manages to stay like that for about five seconds before Dean wordlessly takes the diaper bag and her purse from her and then hauls the boxes into his arms as well, leaving her with just Mary and the flowers._

 _''Listen,'' he says as they're crossing the street. ''If these people have a problem with you that's on them. Got it? It's not your fault. Can't do anything about other people's bad taste.'' He shoots her a grin. ''Anyway, we like you. Right, Mary?''_

 _Mary smiles. And then grabs a fistful of Laurel's hair and tries to eat it._

 _''Well, I'm glad you guys like me,'' Laurel says, carefully untangling Mary's hand from her hair. ''What are you going to do with your kid free time anyway?''_

 _''I don't know,'' he shrugs. ''Run a few errands?''_

 _She looks over at him as they approach Felicity Smoak's house. ''You're going to spend your Saturday running errands?''_

 _''I'm gonna go hang out with all the other stay at home parents wandering around aimlessly wondering what the hell to do without their kids.''_

 _''Where are you planning on doing this wandering?''_

 _''Where would you like me to wander?''_

 _''Preferably I'd like you to get the pie in the fridge before you do any wandering,'' she says. ''But also do you think you could wander - ''_

 _''Doesn't even sound like a word anymore.''_

 _'' - Over to the pharmacy and pick up my prescription?'' It's a perfectly innocent request in her opinion but when he doesn't respond, she looks over at him and catches sight of the look on his face._

 _He looks like he's trying too hard not to appear concerned. ''You...have a prescription?''_

 _''Yeah,'' she looks at him oddly. ''My birth control. It's kinda important. Especially since we rarely use condoms, which is actually highly irresponsible because I know we're monogamous but I do not want another unplanned - '' She stops abruptly when she realizes, suddenly, why he looked so worried. Oh. Right. Recovering addict. Recovering addict who used to abuse her prescriptions. That's her. ''That's all it is,'' she says quietly. ''No more benzos. No more Percocet. I swear.''_

 _''No, no, I know,'' he rushes to assure her. ''I wasn't...'' He trails off with a sigh, glancing over at her guiltily. ''Birth control,'' he says with a nod. ''I'll pick it up.''_

 _Laurel reaches out to knock on the front door a few times before turning back to him. ''But seriously, I need you to get that pie in the fridge.''_

 _''Do you really think I would let anything happen to that pie?''_

 _''I don't know,'' she says. ''It's just that it's hot out and the pie was expensive. I don't want it melting.''_

 _''Laurel,'' he says seriously. ''I would give my life for that pie.''_

 _It gets a laugh out of her, temporarily lifting the heaviness off her shoulders. ''I'm happy to he - ''_

 _The front door swings open, cutting her off mid sentence. ''Hi!'' Felicity greets them both with a big, slightly nervous looking smile. Her hair is free of its trademark ponytail, falling down her shoulders in long blonde waves, and she's not wearing her glasses. She's not wearing her signature dress and heels either. Just plain black leggings and an oversized Harry Potter shirt. She looks comfortable, at ease, and so young. It throws Laurel off for a second. It is easy to forget how young Felicity is when she's spending her nights sitting in command central working with a team of vigilantes but she's only like - what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? She's younger than Sara._

 _Also, she's short._

 _Laurel doesn't think she's ever realized just how short Felicity is before._

 _She's actually adorable._

 _''Laurel, you look beautiful,'' Felicity says._

 _Despite the fact that the compliment seems more like an enthusiastic overcorrection, Laurel recovers as quick as she can, smiles and says, with a warm chuckle, ''Thank you, so do you. And thank you for the invite.''_

 _Felicity's smile wavers for about half a second. ''O - Of course. Why wouldn't I invite you?'' She looks at Mary with a soft smile. ''And hello to you too, Mary. I like your pretty dress.''_

 _Mary looks at Felicity for a second and then turns to hide her face in Laurel's shoulder._

 _''Sorry,'' Laurel says with a quiet laugh. ''She's shy.''_

 _Felicity waves it off. ''Oh, that's okay.'' Then she looks at Dean. She looks extremely worried to see him. ''Um, hi.'' She smiles wanly. ''You – You're the husband, right?''_

 _''Dean,'' Laurel says, automatically. ''His name is Dean. But he's – ''_

 _''He's not staying,'' Dean says. ''So you can relax.''_

 _''Oh, no, I wasn't - ''_

 _''It's okay, I can imagine what your boss has told you about me,'' he says. ''Don't worry about it.'' He steps over to her, hands her the stack of bakery boxes, and then flips open the top box and snags a soft pretzel. ''Okay,'' he announces, stepping back. ''Gotta get that pie in the fridge.'' He slings the diaper bag and purse over Laurel's shoulder, kisses both her and Mary on the cheek, whispers ''keep your mom laughing for me'' in their daughter's ear, and then he all but sprints away._

 _His earlier offer to stay may have been sweet but it wasn't genuine._

 _Mary does not react well to Dean's departure. As soon as she realizes that he's leaving and they're not going with him, she panics. Her eyes get wide and she starts wriggling in Laurel's arms, staring after Dean's retreating form. She looks completely horrorstruck. Frantically, she starts signing,_ Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. _Just over and over again. When that doesn't work, she looks at her mom with huge frightened eyes and says, ''Oh no.'' She keeps saying it, babbling repeatedly, ''Oh no, Mama, oh no. Oh noooo.''_

 _''It's okay, little bird,'' Laurel murmurs in Mary's good ear. ''Daddy's going to come back later.''_

 _She follows Felicity into the house, still trying to calm her daughter down. Felicity's home is nice and homey inside. It's tastefully decorated, bright and cheerful, welcoming, and far neater than Laurel's house. It's lovely. And it's in a great neighborhood. Laurel's kind of jealous. She had wanted to live in this neighborhood because it's only a few blocks away from her grandparents' old house but they hadn't been able to afford it. She loves their home and she wouldn't give it up for anything now but she would have loved for Mary to grow up in this neighborhood. It's full of kids. There aren't a lot of kids in their neighborhood. Mostly older couples or families with teenagers. Felicity hit the jackpot here._

 _Queen Industries must pay well._

 _''Oh my gosh,'' Felicity says excitedly from her spot in the kitchen, peeking into the top bakery box. ''Are these soft pretzels from Carlyle's?''_

 _''Of course,'' Laurel smiles. ''Only the best.''_

 _''I love these things,'' Felicity says. ''I would eat one every day if I could. You know,'' she says, taking the bouquet of tulips from Laurel's grasp. ''You really didn't have to bring anything. Let alone a whole bakery.''_

 _''It's no trouble,'' Laurel says. ''I may have gone a bit overboard,'' she admits, ''but in my defense, Dean never should have let me go into Carlyle's alone and he knows that so it's really his fault.''_

 _Felicity laughs. ''Well, thank you for all this. I didn't have much planned for dessert so the cookies and cupcakes will come in handy. And these,'' she holds up the tulips, ''are gorgeous.''_

 _''I was going to bring you some zinnias from my garden but this one,'' Laurel starts, tickling Mary's belly, ''got mad at me every time I tried to cut some of the flowers.''_

 _Felicity blinks, surprised. ''You garden?''_

 _''I do.''_

 _''I didn't know that.''_

 _She's not sure what she's supposed to say to that. Felicity doesn't know a lot about her in general. She's never asked. None of them have. ''I'll have to bring you some flowers sometime.''_

 _''I'd like that,'' Felicity says with a small smile. It feels like an olive branch. ''Come on,'' she says, once she's gotten the tulips into a vase of water. ''Everyone else is outside.''_

 _It is, in fact, just as awkward as Laurel thought it would be. When she walks out into the small, fenced in backyard, everyone is outright polite to her, but it's still awkward._

 _The thing about Oliver's team is that they are Oliver's team. They follow his lead. And, unfortunately, when it comes to her, Oliver's view has been warped over this past year. She displayed weakness. She openly experienced depression. He saw her at her worst, at her lowest, and he hasn't forgiven her for that yet. She disappointed him. That's all his team knows about her. None of them hate her. She's confident about that. They just think she's as weak as Oliver's made her out to be. It would make sense if they think of her as a liability._

 _Plus, there's Mary._

 _Oliver has never been bad with kids, thanks to the large age gap between him and Thea, but it's obvious that Mary makes him uncomfortable. Last week, she forgot to drop off a file on a local drug dealer so she made a quick stop after Mary's doctor's appointment and when she walked into the Foundry, it was like she had walked in there with a bomb._

 _For the first hour, Laurel's main concern is getting Mary to calm down. She keeps urgently signing,_ Dad _and then pouting and whining when Laurel says, ''He's going to come back later but right now it's just you and me.''_

 _Roy - who has absolutely no fear when it comes to kids - is the only member of Team Arrow who bravely approaches them. He sticks with them for awhile, giving Laurel a ''tour'' and making sure everyone says hi to her. He tries to be the mediator between her and Oliver and John for a few minutes when he leads her over to the grill to say hello to them, but they're too busy bickering over who gets to grill the burgers._

 _''Those two are like an old married couple,'' she jokes._

 _Roy scoffs, but his face lights up in a grin. ''Those two and Felicity are the OGs,'' he says. He looks over at them with this half fond, half morose look. His smile dims just a bit when Felicity waltzes over to John and Oliver and they just accept her into their banter with no problem. ''They've got their own secret club.'' He gives a sort of half shrug and turns back to Laurel with a cheerful grin. ''You get used to it.''_

 _Despite what she thought of him when he was dating Thea, Roy is a total sweetheart. He even tries to get Mary out of her shell. He's pretty determined about it too. He tries peekaboo, jokes, silly faces, but Mary is just as stubborn as she was the day she was born and refuses to budge even though Laurel knows that he amuses her._

 _And then there's Lyla._

 _John's wife - at least she thinks she's his wife? - catches up to them at the refreshment table while Laurel is trying to juggle a red solo cup full of boring ice water and a pouty baby who does not want to be put down. When Lyla sidles up to them, she offers them both a kind smile, looks at Mary, and signs,_ Hi. Why are you sad?

 _Mary is so stunned to see a stranger signing at her that she forgets for just a second to be shy and irritated. She stares up at Lyla in amazement and then, as soon as she realizes that a stranger is addressing her, she throws herself back at Laurel, hiding her face in the crook of her neck._

 _Laurel laughs, rubbing her back comfortingly. ''Sorry,'' she says, yet again. ''She's not big on strangers.''_

 _''Oh, don't apologize,'' Lyla says warmly. ''I used to be the same way. How old is she?''_

 _''She's nineteen months. Or, as my husband would say, she's one.''_

 _''Is she HOH?''_

 _Laurel blinks, mildly surprised. She shouldn't be. Lyla signs so she obviously has some knowledge of the community but it's still shocking to hear someone so casually use the term outside of doctors and support groups. ''She is,'' she says with a nod, and then pauses. Pendred is not a particularly common thing. Whenever she mentions it to people, she usually winds up having to spend the next five minutes explaining the condition and answering questions about how Mary was diagnosed and the genetic factor and if they're upset it wasn't caught during her pregnancy. She doesn't think it's a bad thing that people are curious but she doesn't like using her daughter's medical condition as a conversation starter. ''Progressive hearing loss,'' is what she decides on. ''She's lost about 80% of her hearing in her right ear.''_

 _Lyla just nods, completely unfazed. ''My nephew lost his hearing when he was six,'' she says. ''He just graduated at the top of his class last week. I'm Lyla, by the way,'' she says. ''I'm John's, um...'' She throws a look over her shoulder. ''I'm his partner,'' she says. ''Sorry, I should have led with that. I swear,'' she shakes her head and pats her swollen belly. ''This kid is stealing my brain.''_

 _''It's okay,'' she says. ''I get it. I'm Laurel,'' she offers. ''This is Mary.''_

 _Mary pulls away but just to look at Laurel with a scowl and signs, yet again,_ Dad.

 _''She is really attached to her dad,'' Laurel explains._

 _''That's adorable,'' Lyla grins. ''Is her dad...'' She pauses, glancing around. ''Not here?''_

 _''Unfortunately no,'' Laurel says, voice easy and practiced. ''He had other plans. Next time.'' They move away from the refreshment table over to a couple of the folding chairs set up in the small, fenced in backyard. As soon as she's sitting down, she tries putting Mary on the grass. Immediately, Mary plops her butt down and starts trying to rip her sandals off her feet. Laurel considers attempting to stop her because bees but - meh. It's not worth it. She hands over the lamb lovey, which Mary happily takes once she's rid herself of her shoes, and then turns back to Lyla. ''John talks about you and the baby all the time,'' she offers._

 _Lyla smiles lightly. ''He does?''_

 _''Absolutely. We don't know each other very well. I'm...'' Laurel pauses, sliding her eyes over to the others briefly. ''I'm new so we don't have a lot to talk about, but he's asked me a few questions about pregnancy. What he can do for you to make things easier. It's cute. He seems excited. And,'' she allows, ''maybe a little nervous.''_

 _Lyla laughs at that. ''That makes two of us.''_

 _Laurel leans back in her chair, keeping a close eye on Mary to make sure she doesn't shove a fistful of grass into her mouth. She also keeps one eye on Lyla, who seems perfectly relaxed and content to be sitting here with a stranger instead of talking to people she knows. ''How are you feeling?'' Laurel asks politely. It seems like the safest question. She used to hate when people would ask her that when she was pregnant but it really is an automatic question, isn't it?_

 _Lyla chuckles at the question. ''The other day I cried because I wanted chocolate cake and I didn't have any so I have no idea how I'm feeling.''_

 _Laurel can't help but laugh. ''I've been there. When I was eight months pregnant, I had this intense craving for fried chicken from Ezell's slathered in honey mustard. I sent my husband out to get it at like eight thirty at night and he came home with the chicken...and honey. Not honey mustard. Just plain honey. No mustard in sight. I sat down on my kitchen floor and cried. Like, full on sobbed.''_

 _''But did he rectify his mistake?''_

 _''No, that was the worst part. By the time he got the food home to me, Ezell's was closed.''_

 _''That might be the saddest story I've ever heard,'' Lyla quips. ''I think I've scared John a few times with my hormonal mood swings,'' she adds, glancing over at her significant other who is currently standing over by the grill with his hands on his hips, anxiously watching Oliver attempt to grill up the burgers._

 _''Yeah,'' Laurel drawls. ''Men are weak.''_

 _Lyla chokes on her drink._

 _Laurel smirks over the rim of her own cup._

 _''I think it's because I'm not much of a crier,'' Lyla says, once she's stopped cackling. ''Must freak him out when he walks into the room and I'm bawling over a fabric softener commercial.''_

 _''For me it was this one yogurt commercial,'' Laurel says. ''It always got me. But I'm a crier so when my husband would see me sniffling over Jamie Lee Curtis getting herself regular he would just think everything was normal. I think it freaked him out more when I didn't cry.''_

 _On the ground, Mary latches onto Laurel's dress and manages to pull herself to her feet. She looks mighty proud of herself. ''Mama,'' she says, letting her lovey fall to the ground to tug more at her mother's dress. ''Maaaama.''_

 _''What's up, honeybee?''_

 _Mary outstretches her arms._

 _''You want up?'' Laurel asks, making sure to sign along._

 _''No, no,'' Mary shakes her head. ''Mama, no,'' she points at the cup in Laurel's hand. ''Drink.'' To get her point across, she also signs it. Three times in a row. Then she says, drawing out the word for as long as humanly possible, ''Driiiiiiink.''_

 _Laurel retrieves the sippy cup from the diaper bag and pours some of her water into it, offering it to Mary, but no, that's not good enough. Mary wants a drink from her mother's cup. Not some stupid Mickey Mouse sippy cup. ''Okay, sweetie, okay,'' Laurel says, leaning down and trying to carefully tilt the cup to Mary's lips. It still winds up sloshing onto the grass and dribbling down Mary's chin, mostly because Mary grabs at the cup and tries to steal the whole thing._

 _She takes too big of a sip and instantly reacts like she's just taken a huge gulp of pickle juice. She pulls away, shaking her head and making a face, nose scrunched up. She dramatically sticks her tongue out. ''Oh no, cold!'' She rubs at her tongue as if she's trying to get the cold off, and looks up at Laurel with an accusatory glare._

 _''Too cold?'' Laurel asks._

 _Mary pouts. ''No ice.''_

 _''Oh, you wanted no ice, did you? Well, this one doesn't have any ice,'' Laurel says, holding out the sippy cup. ''Do you want this one?''_

 _Mary grudgingly accepts the cup with a look of adorable annoyance usually reserved only for Pixar animated characters. She takes a sip of it, seemingly satisfied and then she signs, Cookie._

 _''Yes,'' Laurel laughs. ''I will make sure you get a cookie before we leave, my little diva. But not right now, okay?'' She leans down again to press a kiss to Mary's cheek. Mary takes the opportunity to wind her arms around Laurel's neck tightly, sippy cup and all, spilling cold liquid down Laurel's back._

 _And that's life with kids._

 _She hopes Lyla is taking notes._

 _Laurel relinquishes her own drink, placing it down on the grass and settles her daughter on her lap. ''If you're hungry, do you want some chicken?'' She takes the sippy cup when Mary hands it to her. ''Daddy made you some chicken and sweet potatoes for dinner.'' She's not sure how much of that Mary caught, mostly because she doesn't think she was listening, but she certainly catches at least one part of it._

Dad, _she signs._

 _''Wow, they're certainly best friends, aren't they?'' Lyla asks._

 _''You have no idea.'' Laurel dips her head down to quietly assure her daughter, for the millionth time, that Daddy will be back later. Mary accepts this with some resignation, and flops back against Laurel, stealing back her sippy cup to drink her water. Out of the corner of her eye, Laurel catches sight of Lyla looking over at John who has now safely taken over for Oliver at the grill. The look in her eyes is one that Laurel recognizes all too well. It's that excited, nervous, hopeful look that first time parents get. She remembers that look._

 _On her lap, Mary shifts a little. Just enough that she catches sight of her lovey on the ground. She whines in distress and jerks her sippy cup out of her mouth, trying to reach for it and splashing water onto Laurel's knee in the process. Laurel tries to move Mary so she can grab it but before she gets too far in her attempts, someone else swoops in and snatches the lovey off the ground. She looks up, eyes falling on Oliver._

 _He's not looking at her, smiling softly at Mary instead and holding the toy out to her. ''Hi, Mary.''_

 _In response to that innocuous greeting, Mary turns her head to look at Laurel with something akin to fear in her eyes. ''Oh no,'' she mumbles. ''Oh no, oh no, Mama.''_

 _Oliver sighs heavily. ''Still don't like me, huh?''_

 _To be fair, the last time he and Mary had any extended interaction was back in February during that awful dinner. Laurel's not sure what her baby girl remembers from that horrible night, if she even remembers anything at all, but it was a traumatic night. If there is a part of Mary that's able to connect Oliver to that night, which must have been so scary for her, then he would just be the guy who made Mom cry and made Dad angry. So, no. She's probably not a fan._

 _''Don't take it personally,'' she says with a smile. ''Sometimes she doesn't even like me.'' She accepts the toy from him and watches as he sits down in the chair across from her._

 _He takes a sip of his drink. ''No Dean?''_

 _Laurel arches an eyebrow. She's not buying the casual tone of his voice. ''You think that would've been a good idea?''_

 _''Hey, I could've been civil,'' he says. ''If he couldn't have - ''_

 _''Oliver,'' Lyla cuts in. Her voice is soft but there is a definite warning edge to it and she's eyeballing him pretty hard._

 _He wisely chooses not to finish his sentence._

 _''I think I'm going to get a refill on my lemonade,'' she says, and stands easily and with a kind of grace that Laurel absolutely did not have when she was pregnant. ''Laurel, can I get you and Mary anything?''_

 _''I think we're okay,'' Laurel smiles, ''but thank you.''_

 _''Of course.'' On her way past them, Lyla leans down to whisper sharply in Oliver's ear, ''Be nice.''_

 _Laurel glances after her and then reluctantly turns her attention back to Oliver._

 _''I didn't think you'd come,'' he tells her, leaning forward in his chair._

 _She tightens her lips. ''Did you not want me to come?''_

 _''No, no, I wanted you to come,'' he rushes to assure her. To his credit, it does sound like he's telling her the truth. Though it's hard to tell with him. ''I just didn't think you'd want to.''_

 _''Why wouldn't I want to come?''_

 _''I guess I just thought you'd have better things to do,'' he admits. ''And let's face it: the last time you and I were at a dinner party together, it didn't go so well.''_

 _''No,'' she agrees. ''It didn't. Luckily everyone here has been invited,'' she says ''so hopefully there won't be any issues.''_

 _Oliver looks stunned for a second, and then laughs quietly. ''Good point.''_

 _''Really, Ollie,'' she says, trying to smile. ''Of course I came. I know I'm not part of your team but I think we're going to be seeing a lot more of each other from now on. I'd like to get to know them.''_

 _''That's good,'' he nods. ''I'm glad you came.'' He looks over at his team. At his friends. She watches his eyes linger on Felicity for a moment before he looks back at her. ''They want to get to know you too,'' he says, but the tone of his voice is flat and unconvincing. ''It's just been...a rough year.''_

 _She laughs wryly. ''Tell me about it.''_

 _He frowns, the look on his face torn between worried and critical. ''You're doing okay, right? Not just in general but being here around all the...'' He trails off, gesticulating helplessly._

 _''Alcohol,'' she says. This is going to be a thing now. People are going to ask her these questions. Hesitate the way Dean did when she mentioned having a prescription. This is her sober life. It will take some getting used to. Sobriety is something new to her. Even before this past year, she was... Well. She meant what she said when she told Sara she had been slowly drowning for years. ''I'm fine,'' she says. ''Been sober since February. I go to my meetings. I'm a big girl. People are going to drink around me. It's a part of life. I have to get used to it.''_

 _''So you're not - ''_

 _''Tempted?'' She shrugs her shoulders. ''Sure I am.'' She nods in the direction of the refreshments table. ''There's a huge bottle of vodka on that table. I really want it.'' It's not a great idea to be telling him this. Oliver doesn't do well with things like this. They always end up as ammunition. He stores the information away in the back of his mind and then drags it out when he needs to gaslight her. Half the time, he doesn't even mean to do it. It's just who he is. ''But that doesn't mean I'm going to drink,'' she says firmly. ''Life doesn't stop just because I'm in recovery.''_

 _She's not sure how much of that he absorbs beyond her comment about the vodka but he does offer her a small smile. ''It's good that you've...'' He pauses, clearly struggling for the right words. ''Got a hold on things.''_

 _On her lap, Mary throws her sippy cup on the ground. She doesn't drop it. She throws it. It literally bounces. Guess she's done with her water. She sticks her fingers in her mouth to suck on them and curls her lamb lovey into the crook of her arm. Laurel sighs and thanks Oliver when he helpfully grabs the plastic cup off the ground and hands it to her. As soon as she sees him move even just a tiny bit closer to them, Mary looks at him with contempt and says, lowly but extremely firmly, ''Bad.''_

 _Laurel works hard not to laugh. ''Sweetie, it's okay,'' she says. ''It's just Ollie. Mom's friend. Do you remember him?''_

 _Mary tilts her head up to look at Laurel and asks, verbally this time, ''Daddy? My Daddy?''_

 _''Um,'' Laurel frowns. ''No, honeybee, he's not your dad. Your dad is your dad.''_

 _Mary huffs in what appears to be frustration and signs,_ Dad. Help.

 _''No,'' Laurel says gently. ''We're okay, Mary. Everything's okay.''_

 _''She really does look like you,'' Oliver comments._

 _She hears that a lot. She supposes she can understand. Mary does have her eyes and her nose. But her smile... That's all Dean. No question about it. ''Really?'' She asks. ''I've always thought she looks more like her dad.''_

 _''No,'' Oliver shakes his head. ''She's all you. I think it's the eyes.'' He takes what is almost a comically long sip of his drink, which tells her that he's thinking long and hard about what he's about to say. ''I'm sure he wasn't thrilled about this,'' he finally says._

 _She bites back another sigh. He should have kept thinking. ''About what?''_

 _''You coming to this barbeque.''_

 _''Why would he care?''_

 _''Come on, Laurel,'' he scoffs. ''It's not a secret he doesn't like me.''_

 _''Can you blame him?'' She asks, leveling him with a stare. ''Have you given him a reason to like you? You don't like him either.''_

 _''Maybe it's because he keeps punching me in the face.''_

 _She forcibly bites down on her tongue. ''What are you hoping to accomplish here, Oliver?''_

 _''Nothing,'' he snaps. ''I'm just saying that - ''_

 _''Is this a private party,'' someone asks from behind them, ''or can anyone join in?''_

 _''Sara?'' Laurel turns in her seat, spotting the prodigal Lance standing there with a big grin on her face._

 _Sara meets her eyes briefly, smile widening, but then there's a flurry of people surrounding her, all giving her much warmer greetings than Laurel got, and she gets lost in the crowd. Laurel takes one look at her daughter, catches sight of the excitement in her eyes, and smiles. Sara seems to accept all the warm greetings, the hugs, the kiss on the cheek from Ollie, but as soon as she's able to break free, she makes a break for her niece._

 _''Mary Bea!'' She yelps out happily, effortlessly scooping the girl into her arms. ''Baby girl, look how big you've gotten!''_

 _Mary laughs, chirping out something that vaguely sounds like Sara's name and then throws her arms around her aunt's neck and gives her a hug. It is the sweetest thing Laurel has ever seen. It's also not a huge surprise. Mary has always been shy. Right from the beginning, she was not a people person. You have to earn your place if you want to be her friend. Unless, of course, you're Sara. Despite the admittedly limited interactions the two have had, Mary and Sara are thick as thieves. Two peas in a pod. As soon as Sara came home and took her spot in Laurel's life, Mary's ranking of important people went from Dad and then Mom and then everyone else to Dad and then Auntie Sara and then Mom and then everyone else._

 _Can't hold it against her, really._

 _''Sara,'' Laurel greets, rising to her feet. ''What are you doing here? Not that I'm not happy to see you because you know that I am but I thought you were...working.''_

 _''Meh,'' Sara says lazily. ''I took the weekend off.''_

 _''You can do that?''_

 _''Well, I did.''_

 _''You're not going to get in trouble?'' Laurel bites down on her bottom lip. She may not know Nyssa very well and she can't say she's overly fond of her because of the whole drugging thing - which happened twice, if you're counting - but she does know that the woman loves Sara to the moon and back and will do everything in her power to keep her safe. Laurel's worry is that Nyssa may not be able to keep Sara safe in the long run. Sara has always been a free spirit. She makes her own decisions and she lives by her own rules, no one else's. Laurel cannot imagine that the League of Assassins is in love with that kind of attitude. It seems more like a ''fall in line or else'' kind of organization._

 _Her concern must show on her face because Sara fixes a reassuring smile on her face and says, ''It's fine, Laurel. They know where I am. I have the weekend. I came to check on Dad. I spent the afternoon with him today, then I went to the house to see if I could crash with you guys for the night but no one was there.''_

 _''That's why people generally call first.''_

 _''But then Dean came home,'' Sara goes on, completely ignoring her sister. ''He told me about the barbeque and that you were here and I should make an appearance. I told him I'd rather he take me to a movie - ''_

 _''Right, right, because all my significant others are like Pokémon to you.''_

 _'' - But he said I have terrible taste in movies and you could use a friendly face.'' Sara stops, and then frowns. ''Wait, what?'' She tilts her head to the side. ''Pokémon? What does that even mean?''_

 _Laurel smiles innocently and says, ''Gotta catch 'em all.''_

 _Sara's jaw drops. She looks like she's trying incredibly hard to appear offended but there's a grin stretching across her lips and her cheeks are tinged with red. ''You are such a,'' she lowers her voice to a whisper, ''jerk. If I didn't have my niece in my arms, I'd flip you off right now.''_

 _''Hey,'' Laurel holds her hands up, laughing. ''You opened yourself up to a lifetime of teasing.''_

 _''All right,'' Sara amends. ''I guess that's fair. Now, listen, this is important. We have forty minutes to stuff our faces with all the free food we can and then I'm going to announce that I'm jet lagged and ready for bed so we're going to call Dean to pick us up and then he's going to take us out for frozen yogurt.''_

 _''What?''_

 _''Oh, that was my stipulation,'' Sara explains. ''Because I love frozen yogurt and I think it's funny to see how overwhelmed he gets in build your own froyo shops.''_

 _Laurel looks at her for a long time. ''He does get really overwhelmed, doesn't he?'' She snickers, then instantly feels bad about it. ''He's just not used to so many options,'' she tries. ''And he has strong opinions about what toppings you can put on frozen desserts.'' When Sara laughs, Laurel grins. ''I missed you, you know that?'' She pulls Sara in for a one armed hug, even with Mary in the middle. Mary doesn't seem to mind all that much, giggling and then letting out an ''awwww'' noise. ''Also,'' Laurel murmurs into Sara's hair. ''I brought a bunch of food from Carlyle's. There are soft pretzels over on the table.''_

 _''What?!'' Sara pulls out of the hug at lightning speed ''Oh my god, yes! Score!'' She kisses Laurel on the cheek, and then turns and practically sprints away, with Mary still on her hip, presumably off to go eat the entire box of pretzels. Which is something that has happened before. Several times._

 _Laurel grins after her girls, listening to the sound of Mary's laughter. She digs her phone out of her purse and texts Dean a short, sincere,_ Thank you for the backup.

 _His only response to that is a picture of the pink Carlyle's box with the chocolate cream pie safely tucked away into the fridge._

 _She smiles broadly, sends him a few kissy face emojis, and slips her phone away. She turns her attention over to the grill, where Oliver is standing with John and Felicity. They can be as hesitant as they want about her. That is their right. She can even understand it to a point. Nevertheless, she's in this now, whether they approve or not. She is a part of this. If you want to get technical, she was a part of this before any of them. She remembers that, even if they've forgotten. Oliver came to her for help. He can try to erase that part of this as much as he wants, but she's not going to let him. The Hood came to Laurel Lance first. Before any of them. She was a part of this because he chose to make her a part of this within the first month of putting on that hood. And she is not going anywhere._

 _She takes in a deep breath, and makes her way over to them._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

Mary is having a bad day.

It didn't start bad. She woke up happy and cheerful, excited for preschool instead of dreading it for once, babbling away happily while she scarfed down her oatmeal.

And then vertigo happened.

Not the drug, thank god, but the legitimate medical condition. Laurel's still not sure what triggered this specific episode - usually it's long car rides, spinning around, standing up too fast, even dancing - but one minute she was fine and the next she was swaying on her feet.

It's a thing.

The vertigo is nothing new. It's been around since the hearing in her right ear went. At first, her otolaryngologist was adamant that the vertigo was a temporary symptom and that it, along with her balance issues, would vastly improve with regular physical therapy. They were told that in 2014. Her balance issues have gotten better, but the vertigo attacks are still a common enough occurrence that the poor girl had to be subjected to a battery of tests shortly after her third birthday just to rule out any other underlying causes. After a barrage of tests, including an MRI, Mary was found to be - other than the Pendred - perfectly healthy.

So they were sent home with a script for meds to help with the nausea and dizziness, information on some light stretches and exercises that are supposed to help vertigo, strict instructions to keep up with her physical therapy, and a meaningless platitude of _oh, well, she'll probably grow out of it, don't worry so much._

Which is easy for them to say. It's not their kid who has to constantly miss out on being a kid - trips to the playground, visits to Santa, Easter egg hunts, family get togethers - and lie still in bed with a cold compress on her forehead, crying and scared because her head hurts and her stomach hurts and the room is spinning.

''It's not that big of a deal,'' one of the doctors said. But it's not his child who has to live in fear of getting sick in public and sobs when she has to go on a long drive because she knows she's going to be miserable.

Even today her vertigo managed to ruin yet another thing for her.

Mary does not like school. She asks to please stay home almost every day. So of course the one day she's excited and ready to go to school is the one day she gets sick and has to stay home.

Her preschool class is going on a field trip today. It would have been Mary's first ever field trip. They're going to a local animal shelter. That would have been her nirvana. She has been so excited about it too. All she's been able to talk about all week was all the puppies and cats she was going to cuddle. Everyone was ready for it. Dean had bought some Zyrtec for when she inevitably came home covered in cat fur. Last night before bed, Thea made her promise to come home with lots of stories. Laurel was prepared to be peppered with ''can we get a dog/cat/bunny/bearded dragon'' questions for at least a month.

Instead, the poor kid wound up puking up her oatmeal and spent the morning in bed.

Laurel can't blame her for being in a bad mood. She would be pretty ticked off if she had to miss something she was looking forward to. Which she did. Seven months of her life. So she can relate. She does wish she had some backup, though. Mary has been clingy, moody, and ornery all day long and as much as Laurel understands her emotions, it's exhausting to deal with. She doesn't think she would have found this so tiring seven months ago. Mary is just acting like a normal four-year-old coping with disappointment. She should be able to handle this.

Maybe the early morning sex was a mistake.

...Nah.

Normally, if she had a day free to spend with her daughter, she would be doing physical therapy exercises or taking her to the park. Even just a walk around the block. Something active. Or even just something out of the house like taking her out for a smoothie. Whatever it was, she would be doing her best to limit screen time. She's a real stickler about screen time. All the internet mommy boards are extremely worried about screen time. All the popular blogs are all up in arms about it.

Laurel is not a strict parent. Dean's the strict one out of the two. People are always so shocked by that but it's true. He's the one who does meal plans, chore lists, charts for good behavior and potty training. She's the one who says they should go out for ice cream like fifteen minutes before Mary's bedtime or says, on a Friday night at eleven o'clock, that they should just jump in the car tomorrow morning and go spend the weekend in Coast City while Dean looks at her like she has lost her ever loving mind for suggesting such a thing.

However, she does google a lot, she has subscriptions to three different parenting magazines (all of them quite ''crunchy'') and she does read a lot of parenting blogs and forums that she shouldn't. Those things have really scared her about screen time. It is the one thing she tries to be extra vigilant about.

Today, though, she is willing to bend the rules.

She's tired, Mary's not happy, it's raining again, and even if it wasn't, she can't go out in public. Movie day it is.

When Mary wakes up from her early morning nap, feeling better physically but still bummed about missing the trip to the animal shelter, Laurel lets her pick out a bunch of movies and tells her they're going to have a special girls' day, just the two of them. They may not be able to go anywhere but they can still have fun, she says. It seems to do the trick. They build a fort in the living room, Mary brings out a bunch of her stuffed animals, and Laurel makes popcorn. With extra butter, garlic salt, and parmesan cheese because she and Mary like it that way and because Dean's not here to complain that they're ''defiling'' the popcorn. Mary picks out the Toy Story movies for their marathon and she's already laughing less than twenty minutes into the first movie.

Laurel knows she isn't the world's best mom but she can damn well cheer her kid up when she's feeling sad.

When the second movie ends and the credits start to roll, she looks over at Mary. She's flopped down on her back in the nest of pillows and blankets and she's pointing the flashlight at the Paw Patrol bed sheets they used for the roof of the fort. She looks thoughtful. Laurel moves the half-empty popcorn bowl out of the way, lies down, and scoots closer to her. ''Something on your mind?''

Mary shuts off the flashlight, turns it back on, and then shuts it off once more. She sighs heavily and puts the flashlight down before looking over at her mother with a serious look on her face. ''Are the puppies gonna be mad 'cause I'm not there?''

Laurel releases a breath. ''Um...'' She wraps an arm around her shoulders and Mary inches closer to her. ''They might be a little disappointed,'' she says carefully, ''but I'm sure your friends will make sure they have a good time.''

Mary grabs the flashlight again and plays with the switch restlessly. ''I don't have friends,'' she mumbles.

Laurel swears she feels something inside of her shatter when she hears that. It's not altogether a surprise because this has been an issue Mary's been dealing with since she started preschool apparently, but it still hurts. ''What about that little girl you were talking about yesterday?'' She asks. ''The one with the pet snake.''

''Jemima,'' Mary says, and shakes her head. ''No. She's not my friend. Nobody's my friend.''

Laurel doesn't know how to make that one better. It's not an issue a four year old should be facing. Aren't kids supposed to be all sweet and welcoming at this age or something? In all honesty, she knows that Mary is different and she knows that communicating with her is sometimes harder than most kids are used to. She can understand how that could be frustrating for a small child. But _come on_. Not a single one of those little snot nosed germ smear-ers wants to be her friend?

She leans in to press a kiss to the side of Mary's head. ''Someone will want to be your friend, Mary.''

Mary just shrugs in response. She does not look like she believes her. ''You're my friend,'' she says, cuddling into her mother's side. ''And Daddy. Daddy's my best friend.''

''We'll always be your friends,'' Laurel says, running her fingers through Mary's hair. ''Do you know that you and your dad are my best friends?''

Mary looks surprised by that, turning her head up to look at her. ''We are?''

''Yep.''

''Not Auntie Sara?''

''I love Sara very much,'' Laurel says, ''but you and your dad are my favourite people in the whole world.''

Mary sits up, careful to move slowly to avoid another vertigo attack. She pulls her horse blanket into her lap and runs her fingers over the soft fabric. ''Why?''

''Because I love you,'' Laurel says simply. ''And because you two always know how to make me laugh.''

Mary cocks her head to the side with a curious frown. ''Am I a good friend?''

Laurel eases herself into a semi sitting position in the small fort, reclining back against the couch. ''Sweetie, you're one of the best friends I've ever had.''

Mary smiles widely. There's a tiny bit of pink on her cheeks and she's doing that thing she does when she's bashful, head tilted to the side, giggling, bringing her blanket up to partially cover her face. ''Mommy,'' she says, once she's stopped giggling. ''Can I have a hug?''

Laurel feels a smile stretch across her lips. ''Of course, honey.'' She opens her arms and Mary practically throws herself at her enthusiastically, flinging her arms around her neck happily. Laurel holds her tightly, moving one hand to the back of her head automatically. ''Are you still feeling yucky?''

''No,'' Mary says, but doesn't pull away. ''I just wanted to hug you. I missed hugging you.''

Laurel squeezes her eyes shut, burying her face in Mary's hair. It's almost hard to believe she almost lost this forever. She missed seven months of hugs and cuddles. She could have missed even more. She nearly missed her child's entire life. She can't imagine that. She knows she would have been dead so maybe she wouldn't have cared all that much but she cannot fathom not having this. Not being able to wrap her arms around her daughter. Not being able to watch her grow. Not being able to cheer her up when she's feeling sad or watch Toy Story with her or make forts. Her entire world can be condensed down to this one little girl. Who is she without her? Even in the afterlife, in Heaven, at rest with her son who may or may not have been real, she was never truly at peace. Not without Mary.

''I missed hugging you too,'' she says.

''You're the best hugger ever,'' Mary says, matter-of-factly. ''Daddy says so.''

Laurel chokes out a laugh, pulling away. ''Well, if Daddy says so.'' She tucks and errant strand of hair behind Mary's ear. ''You're a pretty great hugger yourself.''

Mary smiles a bit and then, in an abrupt change of subject, perks up and says, ''Can we have cereal for lunch?''

Laurel blinks at the mild sense of whiplash and then laughs again. ''Yes, we can have cereal for lunch.''

Mary throws her hands up in victory, grabs her stuffed dog, and practically dives for the exit of the fort, crawling out to go off in search of cereal.

Laurel follows after her, listening to her babble away excitedly. Despite the overall disappointment of the day, Mary seems happy to sit at the breakfast nook in the kitchen with her dog and the action figures she left at the table earlier, wait for her cheerios, and talk about Toy Story. Even when Laurel has to tell her that they're out of blueberries, the entire reason she wanted cheerios in the first place, she just says, ''That's okay. I like bananas too.''

It's an awe inspiring thing, in Laurel's opinion. Mary's ability to let things roll off her back and focus on the positives. Sure, there's a possibility it's just because she's so young and there are things about the world that she doesn't understand yet, but it's also possible it's just a facet of her personality. Mary has an incredible capacity for happiness. She did not get that from her mother.

Although, with that said, even happy-go-lucky Mary has her preferences. When Laurel places the bowl of cheerios in front of her, she stares down at it, lifts up the spoon with a piece of banana on it and stares at it intently for at least thirty seconds before frowning deeply. She pushes the bowl away from her and looks up at Laurel. ''Oh no,'' she says, somehow managing to sound both dismayed and passive aggressive at the same time. ''The bananas are wrong.''

Laurel looks down into the bowl. ''What?''

''You cut the bananas wrong,'' Mary says sadly. ''Daddy cuts them different.''

''...How exactly?''

''He goes like this,'' Mary mimes cutting a banana. ''And then like this,'' she says, moving her hand in a fast up and down motion. Laurel is going to assume, from the display, that this means he slices the banana lengthwise and then cuts the halves into bite-sized pieces.

''Okay...'' Laurel inhales slowly. ''Well, I don't think it'll change the taste.'' She nudges the bowl back toward her daughter. ''Just try a little bite.''

Mary looks at her dubiously. She lifts the spoon up again, glares at the banana, and then puts it in her mouth. She chews slowly, looking adorably thoughtful, and then she puts the spoon back in the bowl, shakes her head, and says, ''Nope!'' She pushes the bowl over to Laurel. ''I don't want that. There's too much,'' she gestures emphatically, '' _banana_. Not enough _cheerio_. It's okay!'' She reaches over to pat Laurel's arm sympathetically. ''It's okay. This one can be yours.''

And that's that. She looks away from Laurel and looks down at her stuffed dog, waiting patiently for her correct lunch.

Laurel is not sure if she should be fighting her on this one or if she should just let it go. She knows her child is incredibly spoiled but parenting is a dangerous game of picking your battles with fun additional landmines that no one told you about. This does not seem like a battle worth fighting. She remakes the bowl of cereal, makes sure to cut the banana lengthwise and then cut it up into bite-sized pieces, and then places the bowl in front of Mary.

Mary gives the bowl a critical onceover and then deems it satisfactory. She chirps out a quick thanks and then digs in. She even plucks out a single piece of banana and puts it in front of her stuffed dog. ''There you go, Piper.''

''Piper?'' Laurel slips into the seat across from her. ''I thought this was Sprinkles.''

''She had to change her name,'' Mary says through a mouthful of cheerios. ''The mob was after her.''

''The...'' She narrows her eyes. ''Mary Beatrice, has your father been letting you watch General Hospital with him again?''

''Uh-huh.'' Mary grins, bobbing her head up and down. ''He covers my eyes when they kiss and when there's blood.''

''Yet you know about the mob,'' Laurel mutters.

Mary looks up, wiping away a dribble of milk on her chin with the back of her hand. ''What?''

Laurel shakes her head. ''Can't you two just watch Scooby Doo together?'' She asks. ''Your dad loves Scooby Doo.''

Mary scrunches up her nose. _Too scary_ , she signs, far too busy chewing to waste time verbalizing that.

Right. Too scary. Scooby Doo is too scary for her (much to Dean's incredible devastation). She can't watch Finding Nemo alone because the entire premise of getting separated from your dad is extremely distressing to her. She had nightmares every night for a week straight when Laurel made the mistake of showing her Bambi. Yet somehow General Hospital is okay.

Laurel props her elbows up on the table and watches Mary scarf down her cheerios and bananas with fervor. In between bites, she's busy with her Black Canary and Flash action figures, sitting them down and trying to make sure that tiny plastic Black Canary's tiny plastic tonfa stays in her hand.

Laurel's conflicted about those action figures. On the one hand, she's extremely flattered. I mean, how can she not be? She has her own action figure. She also has her own Barbie doll. Comes with two outfit changes: a power suit for Laurel Lance the lawyer and the Black Canary suit complete with mask. It's all incredibly cool. On the other hand, she's not sure how she feels about all these little pieces. The Flash action figure is fine but the Black Canary one has a detachable tonfa. She's not too sure about that. Even the Barbie omitted the tonfa. It gave Black Canary ridiculous heels and big boobs but at least there were no choking hazards.

Without looking up from her bowl of cereal, Mary reaches out and slides the rejected bowl of cheerios and bananas over to her. ''Eat lunch, Mommy,'' she says. ''Daddy says to make sure you eat.''

Laurel narrows her eyes slightly. All right. Going to need to have a talk with Dean about using their daughter as a mole. She looks down at the cereal, which is mostly mush at this point. Her stomach recoils at the mere thought of eating it. She hasn't done too bad with eating today. She ate a full breakfast, she snacked on popcorn, and she's been staying hydrated so she doesn't feel too bad about pushing the bowl of cereal away and saying, ''I'm okay. I ate a lot of popcorn.'' She brushes her hand against Mary's cheek lightly and rises to her feet, taking the bowl of wasted cheerios and bananas with her. She dumps it down the garbage disposal and rinses the bowl out. She's just put it in the dishwasher when she hears a knock on the front door.

She freezes for a second, unsure. Technically, she is not supposed to answer the door. Exposure risk and all that. She glances over at Mary, who hasn't reacted at all to the knocking. She obviously hasn't heard it. ''Hey, Mary,'' Laurel calls over to her. When Mary looks over at her, she signs, _Stay here for a minute. I will be right back._

Mary nods and goes back to her cereal, swinging her feet happily, completely uninterested in whatever's happening.

Laurel pushes through the kitchen door and moves through the dining room to get to the front door. It's probably her father. Or maybe someone from the team. Nobody else would waste time knocking. That's not how they work in this family. At least not in the middle of the day. They have an open door policy during daylight hours. Unfortunately, she can't just throw open the door or yell at whoever it is to get their ass in here. She doesn't want to petrify one of her neighbors or give some Jehovah's Witness a wacky story to tell about that Black Canary lookalike he saw while he was doing his rounds. She quickly maneuvers her way around the fort in the living room to get to the window. She pulls back the curtains just enough to see who's out on the front stoop and as soon as she sees who it is, she relaxes.

She hurries over to open the door and is immediately greeted with an excited cheer of, ''Auntie Laurel!''

She grins back at the little girl in her friend's arms. ''Sara Diggle!''

John, juggling both his daughter and a large brown paper bag with a familiar logo, laughs. ''I knew Auntie Laurel would be a big hit,'' he says as she ushers them into the house.

''Auntie Laurel!'' Little Sara cries out once more, wriggling in her dad's arms until Laurel mercifully swoops in and takes her into her arms, settling her on her hip. ''Hello,'' Sara greets, winding her arms around Laurel's neck. She looks at her and asks, politely, ''How's your garden?''

Laurel chuckles. ''I'm afraid the garden needs some work right now.''

''Oh.'' Sara cocks her head to the side with a frown. ''Did...'' She leans in to whisper, ''Mary's Daddy make cookies?''

''Which cookies?''

''Yummy cookies.''

''She means the ones with the Nutella in the middle,'' John clarifies, after he's dropped the bag off on the dining room table. ''I think you brought us some at Christmas.''

''Oh, the Nutella shortbread sandwich cookies.'' Laurel quirks a smile and offers Sara a wink. ''Those are my favourite too. He hasn't made any recently, no. I think I've been keeping him busy,'' she says lightly. ''I could probably get him to make you some, though.''

Sara's eyes get wide and excited like she's just been given the Nobel peace prize.

''Uh,'' John cuts in. ''I don't know if we need any more cookies in the house.''

''We do!''

''She's a cookie fiend,'' he says.

Sara confirms this with a cheerful nod and a declaration of, ''I love cookies!'' She then follows that up with a more subdued and serious announcement of, ''Red noodles too.''

''Spaghetti,'' John supplies helpfully. ''She means spaghetti.''

''What a coincidence,'' Laurel says. ''Mary's favourite food is spaghetti and meatballs.''

''Does she eat it with her hands too?'' He asks dryly.

''Not so much anymore but she once sneezed with a mouthful of spaghetti and one came out of her nose. Incredibly traumatizing to her at the time but now she tells that story every time we eat spaghetti.''

''Kids are disgusting and strange creatures.''

''You said it.''

The kitchen door swings open and the aforementioned spaghetti monster strolls out, puppy dog under her arm.

Sara lights up as soon as she sees her. ''Mary!''

Mary startles, looks up, and grins. ''Baby Sara!''

Laurel puts Sara down and as soon as she does, Sara skips over to Mary and gives her a big hug. Mary, normally standoffish with people who aren't family, hugs her back with enthusiasm.

Okay then.

Mary has at least one friend.

''You're taller,'' Mary marvels when she pulls away from the hug.

Laurel smiles. She glances over at John, spotting the warm look on his face. ''Have you two eaten lunch?'' She asks. ''I know I'm not a great cook but I make a mean sandwich.''

''Thanks for the offer,'' he says, ''but we just came from lunch. Lyla's in Munich this week so I broke Miss Sara here out of daycare for the day and we're - ''

''Breaking all the rules?''

''After this,'' he smirks, ''we're going to go bug Uncle Ollie at his office.''

''Sounds like fun,'' Laurel says with a chuckle.

''You come too?'' Sara asks with a big grin, looking up at Laurel innocently.

''Oh, I'd love to, sweetheart,'' Laurel says. ''But I'm...'' She smiles tightly. She doesn't know how to explain to a two year old that she can't leave the house because she can't be seen in public because the whole city thinks she's dead. ''Another day,'' she says, running a hand over Sara's curls. ''What brings you two to our neck of the woods anyway?''

''Well, Thea mentioned that Mary was having kind of a tough day,'' John says, wandering back over into the dining room. ''So we thought we'd drop by and bring you two some treats.'' He turns the bag around so that Mary can see the logo printed on the bag.

Mary recognizes it immediately, eyes widening in excitement. ''Carlyle's! Mommy,'' she tugs at Laurel's shirt, wrapping one arm around her leg. ''They brought Carlyle's!'' She doesn't hang around for a response, scampering into the dining room to clamber up onto a chair next to John. ''What is it?'' She questions, with enough reverence that you would think John came bearing the holy grail.

''I was going to get some bear claws,'' John tells her, ''because your mom's told me that you love bear claws.''

Mary nods excitedly.

''But they were all out and Miss Sara here insisted that we get macarons.'' He pulls out a box and a couple smaller brown paper bags. ''So we compromised and got some macarons, a few fritters, and some soft pretzels because I don't think they let you leave without buying them.'' He opens up the pink box, revealing a slew of brightly pastel colored confections.

Laurel glances at the treats shortly but mostly keeps her eyes on Mary who looks positively dumbfounded. She smiles and chuckles lowly, settling into a chair and pulling Sara up onto her lap. ''Evidently Miss Sara is a very clever girl,'' she declares. ''I love macarons.''

Sara tilts her head up, reaching one hand up to pat at Laurel's chin. ''Me too.''

''She's never had a macaron before,'' John says. ''She thinks they're cookies.''

'' _Pretty_ cookies,'' Sara says.

''They are pretty, aren't they?'' Laurel peeks over at the box of colorful treats briefly and then switches her attention to John. She strongly doubts that the only reason he's here is to bring them macarons. ''Hey, Mary?'' She crooks her finger at her daughter and Mary reluctantly looks over at her. ''Don't we have another Toy Story left to watch?''

''Uh-huh. Toy Story 3.''

''Do you think it would be okay if Sara and Johnny joined us?''

''Yeah,'' Mary says with a bright smile. ''But...'' She trails off, looks up at John, and then climbs off the chair to skitter over to Laurel and whisper in her ear, ''Can we have some of those?''

Laurel whispers back, ''I think that can be arranged.''

It's easy to get the girls set up in the fort with Toy Story 3 and a macaron each and then quietly excuse themselves under the guise of ''getting something from the kitchen.'' Normally, she wouldn't ditch her daughter but she's not buying John's ''I randomly decided to bring you some baked goods'' story. She doesn't think he's been sent by anyone. She doesn't think this is Ollie's weird way of checking on her via someone else because he's too scared to come to the house, but she thinks there's more to the story. She can tell by the look on his face.

With the girls safely tucked away with their treats, Laurel tugs him into the kitchen, away from any prying little ears. ''Can I get you anything?'' She asks. ''Coffee? Tea?''

''I'm okay, thanks.''

She ignores that. ''I'm making coffee.'' She starts puttering around, searching for the filters. ''Dean's always moving the coffee filters around,'' she explains, opening and closing a few cupboards in search of the elusive filters. ''I keep saying we should get a Keurig so we don't have to buy the filters anymore but he's old fashioned when it comes to coffee. And super stubborn.''

''He likes what he likes,'' John shrugs. ''I can relate. I've never understood all that fancy coffee crap either. Frappuccinos are just cold sugared milk and why should I need some expensive machine to make me a single cup of coffee when I could make a whole pot in the coffee maker I've had since Lyla and I got married?'' There's a pause. ''The first time.''

''You old men,'' she quips, patting him on the cheek. ''So resistant to change.''

She finally finds the coffee filters in the cupboard under the sink, plucking them free and going for the coffee in the cupboard above the microwave. She busies herself getting the coffee on, only glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He's moved over to the breakfast nook where Mary left her action figures on the table. He picks each of them up, examining them closely. ''I don't have an action figure,'' he says. ''I call racism.''

''You're probably right,'' she says, getting Mary's bowl of leftover cereal milk and stray pieces of bananas out of the way.

''Though I guess it's worth noting,'' he allows, ''that Thea doesn't have an action figure either. Neither does Oliver and he's the OG vigilante.''

''True.'' She dumps the bowl out into the garbage disposal, rinses it out, and puts it in the dishwasher. ''Is it wrong that I find that amusing?''

''Nah,'' he snorts. ''It's funny.''

''To be fair, Green Arrow is historically more of a controversial figure.''

''That is an understatement.''

Just goes to show: Don't start your vigilante career by being a serial killer for a year. When The Flash showed up in Central City, it took them less than a year to dedicate an entire day to him. Black Canary, Spartan, and Speedy are revered in Star City. Green Arrow, on the other hand... Opinions about him are split down the middle. Some people - including the SCPD - seem to have a hard time getting past that first year. Understandable, she has to admit that.

She grabs a dishrag to wipe down the table quickly and then takes a seat. ''So,'' she says, tilting her head to the side with a small smile. ''Why are you really here, Johnny?''

His smile tightens. ''A friend can't visit another friend?''

''Sure, a friend can,'' she says easily. ''But that's not why you're here. I can see it in your eyes.''

His expression darkens somewhat and his body visibly tenses. ''I was hoping we could talk,'' he admits.

''You can always talk to me.''

He offers her a small smile and then drops his gaze back down to the Black Canary action figure. ''That night,'' he begins hesitantly, placing the toy back on the table. ''The night you died.''

She, by some miracle, does not flinch.

''What happened was my fault,'' he says.

This happens a lot. She's been noticing that. All these men keep shouldering the blame for what happened that night, groveling for forgiveness so they can smile without guilt. She's not sure what she's supposed to do to help them. Dean had nothing to do with her death. He wasn't there. He'll feel guilty for the rest of his life no matter how hard she tries to get him to snap out of it but he has no culpability here. She cannot say the same for the rest of them. At the end of the day, Darhk killed her and he's where the blame should go. That doesn't mean other people's choices didn't make what he did possible.

She can't absolve her father or Oliver or John. She can't even absolve herself.

''John...''

''No, Laurel,'' he cuts her off. ''Just hear me out. If Andy hadn't...'' He trails off, shaking his head. ''If I hadn't put my trust in him, none of this would have happened. Darhk wouldn't have gotten his powers back. He wouldn't have been able to...do what he did to you. What happened to you happened because I - ''

''You wanted your brother back,'' she interrupts calmly. ''I walked into hell to bring my sister back. How can I possibly fault you for that?''

He looks slightly incredulous. ''You don't think you should? I put him before the team.''

''I put Sara before _everything_.''

''Laurel, I let him manipulate me into thinking that he had changed and you died because of that.''

''And people died because of what I did to Sara,'' she says. ''I haven't forgotten that. She killed people. Those women who died - Their blood is on my hands because of choices I made.'' She winces, looking away from him and rubbing the back of her neck. ''Sara put Thea in the hospital,'' she says. '' _Thea_. That happened because of me. Believe me, I understand how you're feeling.''

''You were my partner,'' he says. ''I should have had your back. And I didn't.'' He inhales sharply, regret flashing in his eyes. ''I'll never be able to make up for that,'' he says earnestly. ''I'm so sorry, Laurel. I just wanted you to know that.''

She nods slowly. She runs a hand through her hair and picks up the action figure. She stares down at the small plastic version of herself with the removable mask and the choking hazard tonfa.

Dean has always hated her tonfa. He's always said that her real strength is in hand to hand combat and by lugging around some largely useless ''stick'' as a safety net, she was restricting herself. ''I don't get you, Laur,'' he told her once, while they were training, right after she had kicked his ass and he had laughed and told her she was doing great. ''You're a badass, but you never run on full power. Are you seriously going to spend the rest of your days as Canary purposefully weakening yourself in the field just because you're afraid Oliver will get mad at you if you're better than him?''

She vehemently denied that. She'd scoff at him, roll her eyes, and say, ''Why would I be afraid of Oliver? I just need more field training.''

She lied.

He was right. The tonfa was an excuse. A safety net she thought she could afford. A reason to stick to the status quo. Look where that got her.

''I think about that night a lot,'' she admits without looking up. ''More often than I should. I try not to but I can't help it.'' She stands up the action figure and finally looks back at him with a sad smile. ''I have nightmares a lot. I've had my fair share of panic attacks since I got back. Sometimes my scar aches.'' She picks at her cuticles nervously, leaning back in her seat. ''He's still there. Darhk. He's in my head. I didn't get those seven months. It's fresh for me. I'm still healing. I don't know if I'll ever...'' She stops, huffing out a quiet bitter laugh. ''That night happened,'' she says. ''I wish it hadn't, but it did. We can't take it back.'' She reaches across the table to grasp his hand, locking eyes with him. ''But maybe we should stop carrying it. All of us. Maybe we should try to - I don't know. Let it be?'' She smiles weakly. ''I don't blame you,'' she says, and gives his hand a light squeeze. ''Don't get me wrong,'' she adds on quickly when it looks like he's about to object. ''I'm aware of your part in what happened. Just like I'm aware of my father's part in it. And Oliver's. And mine.''

''Yours? None of this was your - ''

''I was pregnant.'' This is not something she ever intended to come out, but the words just sort of slip out. Outside of Dean, nobody else knows about the baby. She hasn't even told Sara or Thea. Even when it comes to Dean, he's had half a year to come to terms with the loss. She's had less than two weeks. It's a private pain. She's been trying to work through it on her own, to grieve without allowing it to take over her entire life but it's a difficult thing to do. Grief is a messy thing, and it is something that terrifies her more than any villain ever could. When Tommy died, she lost control completely. When Sara died, she got tunnel vision and wound up dressed in black leather and beating up criminals in alleyways at midnight with a glorified stick.

She doesn't handle grief very well. Something she has in common with her husband. She doesn't know what to do with this loss.

She pulls her hand away from John's, watching carefully as his expression changes rapidly from shock to horror to pity. She's been getting that combination a lot ever since she came back. ''Laurel,'' he says, and that's all he says. He sounds so sorry.

She bites down on her lip. ''Back in April. When the arrow...'' She clears her throat. ''My body went through a lot of trauma that night. The arrow, the surgery, blood loss, shock. Miscarrying wasn't a surprise. I knew when that arrow went in that I wasn't going to be having a baby anytime soon.'' She swallows hard. ''I was pregnant,'' she repeats, more for herself than for John. ''But I put on that suit anyway. I walked into that prison looking for a fight.''

''I'm sorry,'' he says.

''I'm not telling you this to make you feel worse,'' she assures him. ''I'm telling you this because... There are things we'll have to carry with us. It's the nature of this job. This work that we've chosen to do. I just think that maybe that night shouldn't be one of them. It's too heavy. Maybe we should put that one down.'' It's easier said than done - of course she knows that - but she has to say something to him. ''Chalk it up to bad luck. Mistakes we won't make again. What good will it do to keep that night with us?''

It's such a horribly hypocritical thing to say. It's true, of course. It won't do anyone any good to be chained and shackled by that night, but she doesn't yet know the way out for her. Part of her is still in that night. In that prison, in that hospital bed, dying. But that's because it's _her_ trauma. It happened to _her_. Perhaps that is a selfish thing to say. That night no doubt hurt everyone else. But they didn't die, did they? They weren't the victims. She was. This is hers to carry.

''I've been trying not to let Darhk win,'' she says. ''Ever since I got back, I've been feeling like - like somehow, even though he's dead and I'm here, he still won. I don't want that.'' Just the idea disgusts her. Darhk took everything away from her. She wasn't even his target. Her father was. She was just the tool used to blow him apart and it destroyed her. She doesn't want him laughing at her from the afterlife, watching her suffer and gloating. ''We can't go back to that night,'' she says. ''Can't make different choices or change the outcome of what happened. We have to find a way to move on. I know that I, for one, can't keep reliving that night. If I do, it'll break me.'' She leans back in her seat, twisting her wedding rings around on her finger. ''We can only do our best with what we have now, and I think what we have now is a second chance.''

She wants so badly for that to be true.

She smiles lightly and heads over to the freshly brewed coffee. She pours two mugs and brings them over to the table. He doesn't touch his but he watches as she brings the cream and sugar over to the table to mix into hers. There's a strange, nostalgic, fleeting smile on his face that he's trying to hide from her and he looks like he's struggling to find the words to say what he needs to say to her. ''You know, when you first joined the team,'' he begins. ''I didn't like you. Did you know that?''

''Uh, yeah,'' she deadpans. ''No shit.'' She rises to her feet to put the coffee cream back in the fridge.

''It wasn't you,'' he says quickly. ''They were my issues. I shouldn't have put them on you. Oliver... He used to make some stupid decisions when you were involved and I blamed you for that. I thought you were a distraction. That wasn't fair.''

She tries to chuckle to ease the tension but it just winds up coming out sounding awkward. ''It's okay.'' She sits back down, instantly reaching for her coffee. ''Really. That was a long time ago. You've more than made up for it.''

''I want you to know that I trust you,'' he says sincerely.

''I do know that.''

''Do you?'' He raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of his coffee. ''When you were gone, your husband pointed out that we may not have treated you all that fairly. Looking back, I - I'm worried he may have been right.''

Laurel looks down at her coffee and tries not to laugh. She licks her lips slowly and runs through a possible list of answers to that question. She's not sure he wants to hear the honest one.

''Did you ever feel like you weren't part of the team?'' He asks. He sounds so serious.

She takes a sip of her coffee. ''Sometimes.'' She takes another leisurely drink of coffee and then sets her mug down. ''What you three have,'' she says. ''It's something rare. You and Ollie and Felicity - you love each other and you trust each other with your lives. That's an amazing thing. But I think...'' This is so not a conversation she thought she would be having today. To be honest, it's not one she's ever wanted to have. OTA, as Felicity likes to call it, is an impenetrable force within the team. It's good for them but for the people on the outside of those walls, it's become a legitimate safety concern. ''I think you three can sometimes bring out the worst in each other,'' she says. ''I know you care about each other but that doesn't mean you always like each other or work well together. Especially when there are other people on the team getting shafted in order for the team within the team to keep the peace. And yeah, it was hard to feel like I was part of the team. I know Thea felt that too. My father. Sara. Even Roy. And what exactly happened to Curtis? Last I knew, he was poised to join the team.''

''He did,'' John says, and then winces. ''For awhile.''

''What happened after awhile?''

''He...decided it wasn't a good fit.''

''Why is that?''

John releases a resigned sounding sigh. ''We haven't been working well together lately,'' he admits. ''When you died - ''

''You know this has nothing to do with me,'' she interrupts softly. She leans back, taking a few more sips of her coffee while she watches him process what she's saying. ''Imagine putting in 100%, giving it your all, working your ass off to be part of a team and then realizing that the team you joined won't have your back because you're not part of the inner circle.''

That one seems to shake him. ''Is that really how you felt?''

''I respect you,'' she tells him, honest. ''I respect all of you. I love all of you. But OTA isn't really a team anymore. It's a clique.''

He doesn't disagree with that, though he looks ashamed that it's come to this. ''So how do we turn it back to a team?''

''That's not for me to say.''

''Why not?''

''It's not my place.''

''You're part of this team too.''

''I was.''

''What does that mean? You're still - ''

''Johnny.'' She says his name gently and calmly, locking eyes with him from across the table. She doesn't say anything else. She just wraps her hands around her mug and watches his face.

''...You're not coming back,'' he says. ''Are you?''

She smiles wryly. A quiet, wisftul sigh escapes her lips. ''When all of this is over and I'm free to at least attempt to pick up the pieces of whatever's left of my life, I'm packing up my husband and our daughter and we're going on a vacation.'' She nods decisively. She's been thinking a lot about that lately. Maybe the weather's been getting to her. She wants to go to the beach. Somewhere warm. Blue water, white sand, little umbrellas in virgin Pina Coladas. ''I'm thinking Hawaii.''

He smiles, but he looks sad. ''And after that?''

''I don't know,'' she says. ''Maybe we'll try for another baby. Maybe we'll go off the grid and just relax for a bit. I just know that wherever I end up - ''

''It won't be with us,'' he finishes.

She presses her lips into a thin line. She hasn't even shared that idea with Dean. They've talked about the vacation - it was his idea - and they've talked about potentially trying for another baby after all of this is over, but she hasn't told him about her plan to leave Team Arrow for good or that she's been thinking about moving. She knows he would be on board with it. He's been itching to get out of this city ever since Tommy died. It's just not something she wants to speak about out loud just yet. Not when she's not sure what it means.

She can't be a part of that team anymore. It's not a safe place for her. She will die there. She just hasn't quite decided what that means for Black Canary. She doesn't know if this means she's going to retire for good or freelance, so to speak. It's a hard thing to do alone. But it would be even harder to leave Black Canary behind. She doesn't think she can do that.

''I don't want to die,'' she says. ''I didn't want to die then. I don't want to die now.''

''I don't want you to die either,'' he agrees. They lapse into a semi comfortable silence for a few peaceful moments, drinking their coffee and listening to the faraway sound of the girls laughing. ''For what it's worth,'' he says eventually. ''You were part of my team.''

''I'm glad.''

''I respect your decision to move on. I'm selfish,'' he throws her a half smile, ''so I want you to stay. But I can understand why you can't. Will you promise me one thing?''

''What's that?''

''Wherever you end up, whether it's Star City or Hawaii, take Black Canary with you. Don't leave her behind.'' He says it so solemnly, as if it's of the utmost importance that he gets that through to her. ''I know you had a lot of push back in the beginning from everyone - including me - but we were wrong. It's who you are. You are the Black Canary. The only one. There are a lot of people who haven't forgotten that. You gave the people of this city something that Oliver never has. An approachable hero. You weren't just a drive by vigilante. You talked to the people you helped. Made sure they got home safe or got the medical attention they needed. You showed them kindness. I don't think anyone's ever told you what that meant.'' He reaches over to place his hand over hers, squeezing. ''You were a hero. You still are.''

She gulps down the lump in her throat. Making a difference as Black Canary had been the hope. It was why she did it. The end goal. She just hadn't been aware that she'd succeeded. It all happened so quickly. She didn't know she had time to make a difference. The whole ''beloved'' hero thing she's been faced with since she got back is not something she ever saw coming. She hadn't known she was loved much less beloved.

''I know you're in pain,'' John tells her kindly. ''I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through with all of this. But I think this is who you're meant to be. You're not done fighting yet. Remember that, all right?''

She manages a quick nod and then takes another drink of her coffee, trying to swallow down the emotion lodged in her throat. ''You know it wasn't just me,'' she says. ''It wasn't like I was the only one out there giving people hope. None of this starts or stops with me, or even Oliver. It was never one person. It was all of us. This isn't a crusade,'' she says with a smile. ''This is a movement. I hope to see it continue and thrive for a long time whether I'm a part of it or not.''

''You'll always be a part of this, Laurel,'' he promises.

She smiles softly. ''Thank you, Johnny.''

Abruptly, to cut the heaviness of the conversation, she gets to her feet and retrieves the box of macarons from the dining room.

''Okay.'' She flips the box open. ''Now tell me again which one of these pink ones is rose and which one is raspberry? Because I married a curmudgeon and if he accidentally bites into a rose flavored macaron thinking it's raspberry, I'm going to have to listen to him rant about how flowers aren't food and honestly, I don't have that kind of time.''

.

.

.

By the time the movie is over, the rain has slowed to a light drizzle. By the time John and Sara head out, off to go bring Uncle Ollie a fritter and annoy him for funsies, it's stopped raining altogether. It doesn't take Mary long to start begging to go play outside.

Given that they've both been cooped up indoors all day, Laurel thinks that's a good idea. It'll give them both a chance to get some fresh air and burn off some of the sugar from the macarons. In no time at all, Mary is bundled up in her raincoat and her red rubber rain boots, looking for earthworms while Laurel pulls at the weeds in her poor overgrown garden.

It would be nice to be able to load Mary up and take her to the nearest Home Depot for some supplies but since that's not an option, she'll have to make do with what she has here. She keeps one eye on Mary, poking through the grass in search of a wormy friend, and pulls on some worn out gardening gloves. She's not upset with Dean or Thea for not keeping her garden up and running while she was gone, neither of them have green thumbs, but it is upsetting to see the current state of it.

She took a lot of pride in this garden. She always took care of her flowers. Even when her depression was at it's worst and she was neglecting almost every aspect of her life - including her work, her marriage, parenting, her health and personal hygiene - she still got up and did at least the bare minimum to keep things in her garden neat, tidy, and alive. This garden is something that's important to her.

Dean has his car. Laurel has her flowers.

She will admit, however, that today she can barely muster up the energy to pull the weeds out of the dirt. She picks at the culprits halfheartedly, tugging them out of the ground and she tries to work her magic with all the dead flowers, removing the ones beyond saving and caring for the ones that might have a chance, but she's mostly on autopilot.

Today has been a strange day. She loves John. He's her friend and she's glad they had that talk, it was needed, but it was heavy and now she feels wrung out. She stands straight, placing the hefty garbage bag full of weeds on the ground and looking over at her daughter. Mary has moved over to the rose bushes by the fence and she's crouched down, searching for worms. She doesn't look like she's digging around too much or creating too much of a mess so Laurel lets her be. She tugs her gloves off and drags the garbage bag over to the back porch, dropping it down unceremoniously. She pulls out one of the chairs at the table, wipes off as much of the rainwater as possible, and takes a seat.

Maybe it's time to admit that she's getting worried about these physical side effects of her return. She has been so adamant that the only reason she's been feeling like crap is because her body is still getting used to being alive again and she wants that to be true so badly, but it's hard to keep believing that when she feels progressively worse every day instead of better.

Often times, what's dragging her down is continuous flu like symptoms that just aren't getting better. She's tired, aching, nauseated, groggy, and dizzy. She has no appetite, her head hurts, and she just feels out of sorts. It's entirely possible that she actually is getting the flu because it's not like she's had the time to get a flu shot and she can't imagine her immune system is at the top of its game, but that's unlikely. A few days after coming home, she even made Dean go out and get her a bunch of pregnancy tests, just to be extra sure that she came back alone, but it hadn't been a surprise when they all turned up negative. She would love for this to be something as ''simple'' as the flu or pregnancy.

Since when has she had that kind of luck?

She looks back over at Mary, catching sight of her just as the little girl ducks behind the rose bush and out of sight. ''Mary!'' She calls over to her. ''Please stay where I can - ''

''Mommy, look!'' Mary pops out from behind the bush with her hands cupped around something. She scurries over to the porch excitedly, almost tripping up the few steps in her haste. ''Look what I found!'' She holds her hands out so Laurel can see what she caught. ''It's a slug!''

Laurel stares down at the lump of goo masquerading as a living being. She doesn't know whether to laugh or recoil in disgust. At least Mary didn't eat the slug this time. Which she has indeed done in the past. That was the first ever time Laurel had to call poison control. The nice man on the other end of the line could not quite manage to hide his laughter. ''Yep,'' she says. ''That's definitely a slug.''

''I'm gonna name him Buzz. After Buzz Lightyear,'' Mary says proudly. She carefully moves the bug to one hand. The slow moving lump continues inching along her small hand. She runs her index finger over it, petting the ugly creature like it's some cute fuzzy critter and not _a slug_. She looks up at Laurel innocently. ''Do you - Do you think the pet store's got slug food?''

Laurel looks at her, baffled. ''Mary, I'm not sure we can keep Buzz as a pet.'' She tries to say it as kindly as possible, reaching over to fix the hood of Mary's jacket.

Mary doesn't even notice. Apparently the gentle tone of Laurel's voice did nothing to soften the blow because her face falls instantly. ''But why?''

''I'm not sure we can take care of him,'' Laurel tries.

Mary seems to perk up at that, nodding her head enthusiastically. ''We can!'' She cries out, sounding incredibly optimistic about her chances of talking her mother into this. ''We'll google it.'' She shifts the slug to one hand and then over to the table. She wipes the slime all over her hands on her jacket and Laurel tries not to look too repulsed.

''Mary,'' she sighs out.

''Please, Mommy.'' Mary stares up at her with her puppy dog eyes. She cuddles up close to Laurel, tugging at her shirt and trying to give her a hug. '' _Pleeeease_. He's friendly. I promise. I love him.''

Laurel can't help but frown at that. First of all, she cannot seriously be talking about the same thing Laurel's looking at. Second of all, she has known this slug for like two minutes so this seems to be moving really fast. Laurel tilts her head to the side. ...Her child is odd. Wonderful and amazing, but odd. ''Buzz is a slug.''

''Buzz is my friend.''

Buzz is a giant booger pretending to be something other than a garden pest.

''I'm sorry, kiddo,'' Laurel says. ''But slugs aren't pets.''

Mary does not take that well. She tenses up and all of a sudden, she goes from desperate and pouting to angry and pouting. ''But that's not fair!'' Huffing angrily, she crawls under the table and plops herself down on the damp wooden porch, crossing her arms in frustration. She sits there, pouting and sniffling miserably for about three seconds before she pushes herself up onto her knees, ducks out briefly, and snatches Buzz the slug off the table. Quite roughly. That poor snot clot must be getting agitated by now. There's this giant human yanking him away from his food source, parading him around, talking loudly. He was probably eating or sleeping when she grabbed him.

Do slugs sleep? Also, do they have teeth? Like, can they bite? Laurel has no idea what the answer is to these questions. She doesn't know much about slugs other than they're pests and she doesn't like them in her garden. She didn't think she needed to know all about slugs because she didn't think her child would ever want to keep one for a pet. Then again, she didn't think her child would ever eat a slug either and look what happened there.

''Mary,'' she tries, and gets no response. She has a feeling it's less because Mary can't hear her and more because she's choosing to ignore her. ''Mary,'' she says again, louder. ''Can you please at least be careful with - ''

''Mommy, shut up.'' It's a quiet little snarl and Mary instantly looks remorseful, throwing a wide-eyed look over her shoulder as if she too cannot believe she just said that, but it does nothing to quell the shock.

Okay, listen.

She knew about the terrible twos and she knew about the threenager phase, but nobody told her four would be just as bad. What would they even call that? The horrible fours? The four-ible stage? At what age does it get better?

Laurel gapes at Mary for several seconds, desperately trying to figure out what the fuck and then she narrows her eyes. Yeah, no. That's not going to fly. ''What did you just say to me?''

Mary doesn't answer. She hunches over even more under the table, guarding the slug like she's Gollum hoarding the One Ring. Laurel sighs and crawls under the table with Mary, moving around to sit in front of her. The slug is now crawling down Mary's leg, making it's way toward freedom inch by inch. She's watching the thing closely but doesn't seem to have any major drive to grab it and hold it close the way she was only seconds ago.

''Mary,'' Laurel says. ''I'm sorry you're feeling upset, but that doesn't mean you get to talk to me that way. I know we've talked about this before. You're entitled to feel whatever you need to feel but you do not have the right to hurt people just because you're upset.''

Mary looks up at her through her eyelashes, looking pitiful. ''I'm sorry,'' she mumbles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She sniffles, looks down at the slug for a second, and then abruptly raises her head and meets Laurel's eyes. ''But Buzz has to be my pet,'' she says firmly. ''I need him.''

Laurel blows out an already exhausted breath and closes her eyes momentarily. ''I know you want a pet,'' she says. ''Your dad and I have been talking about that and we both know it's something that's important to you, but we need to wait for things to settle down before we can get a pet. And you're not going to get one with that attitude.''

Mary considers that for a moment. ''It has to be a slug,'' she says. ''Or a spider. A big one.'' Her eyes light up and she straightens. ''Or a turkey!''

Laurel raises her eyebrows. ''A turkey,'' she echoes. ''Why?''

''They're ugly,'' Mary says, matter-of-fact. ''People are scared of 'em.''

Well, she's not wrong. ''You want people to be scared?''

Mary nods. She looks worried and maybe a bit embarrassed but she also looks incredibly firm on this.

''Of what?'' Laurel asks, signing along. ''Of you?''

At that, Mary's eyes darken with determination and she clenches her jaw - an extremely Winchester trait - and she nods once more.

Laurel is honestly so lost right now. ''Why do you want people to be scared of you?''

Mary looks back down at Buzz the slug. She picks the thing up, plucking it from her rubber boot and plopping it down in the palm of her hand. ''If I got Buzz,'' she practically whispers, ''they'll leave us alone.''

''Who? The kids at school?''

Mary shakes her head. She pets Buzz and doesn't look up for a long time. Eventually, she sighs and relinquishes the thing, placing it down on the porch. She wipes her hand on her leggings and looks at Laurel. ''The bad guys,'' she says. ''Like the bad man that hurt you. If they're scared, they can't hurt you. Or Daddy. And you won't leave again. Buzz'll scare them away 'cause he's so ugly. I can protect you.'' She looks so innocent right now, peering up at her with her scared eyes.

Laurel doesn't know what to say to that. Her first instinct, which she already knows is wrong, is to just brush past this. She doesn't want to see that kind of fear in her daughter's eyes. It's tempting to just give in, let Mary keep the stupid slug, and act like this never happened. She's done that before. Shut down and let Dean handle things like this because she doesn't want to face them. She's done that too many times honestly. She can't do it again.

She clears her throat and tries to get her shit together. ''Come here.'' She crawls out from under the table and helps Mary to her feet. She sits down in the chair and tugs Mary closer to her so they're eye to eye. ''Mary,'' she says, taking her hands. ''I love you, do you know that? I love you so much.''

Mary nods, looking down at their entwined fingers. ''I know.''

''Okay, good. That's good. I just wanted to make sure.'' She licks her lips, struggling to find the right words that will make Mary feel better. She feels like she should be better at this. She was a lawyer. All she did was talk. People tell her all the time that she's so good at knowing what to say. She can come up with passionate opening and closing arguments that win cases and find the right words to comfort John, but she can't even talk to her own kid. ''Listen, Mary Bea,'' she starts. ''I know that things were bad when I was away. I know that you were sad.''

''Yeah,'' Mary bobs her head up and down. ''And Daddy too,'' she says sadly. ''He... He was the saddest.'' Her voice sounds choked when she says that. ''He missed you all the time. I think he was even more sadder than Grandpa.''

Laurel tries to bite back a grimace. ''I'm so sorry you were all sad,'' she says. ''It's awful to be so sad. I - I know that what happened to me was scary but I need you to know that the bad man who hurt me is gone now. Forever. He can't come back.''

Mary looks hesitant to believe that. ''Are you sure?''

''I'm sure. He can't hurt anyone ever again,'' Laurel says, and follows it up with a sign of _, I promise._

Mary thinks about that for a minute. ''Okay,'' she says. ''But there are other bad guys.''

''Yes,'' Laurel says. ''There are. And I think it's very sweet and very brave of you to want to help us. You're an amazing girl, my little bird,'' she says, pulling Mary closer so she can lean in and kiss her cold cheek. ''I love that you always want to help people. Your dad and I are so lucky and proud to have you as our daughter. But, Mary, it is not your job to protect us. It's really important that you know that. We're your parents. It's our job to protect you while we can and to prepare you for the incredible, amazing life we want you to be able to have. Right now, your only job is to be a kid and to be kind to others. Is that okay?''

Mary doesn't respond. She has heard the words. Laurel is sure of that. But she has no response. She doesn't look particularly okay with that.

Laurel doesn't know what else she can say. She's out of words. ''Are you okay?''

Mary nods, but stays silent. She's rubbing at her eyes and she looks like she's about to burst into tears.

''Are you sure? Because, you know, it's okay to not be okay. You've had a lot of change this year. You're going to school now, your dad's working, and I'm...'' She trails off, unsure how to proceed with that. She tries to smile, lifting Mary's hand up and kissing the back of it tenderly. ''I know change can be a scary thing,'' she says. ''It's understandable if you're feeling overwhelmed or sad or even angry about that.''

Mary's bottom lip wobbles. She sniffles again, blinking furiously, bravely trying to keep from crying. She lunges forward and jumps up, wrapping her arms around Laurel's neck. Laurel lifts her up onto her lap effortlessly and hugs her back, enveloping her in her arms. She hears Mary let out a single ragged sounding sob, tears leaking into her skin. Laurel squeezes her eyes shut and holds Mary a little tighter. Today has not been an amazing day.

''I just want everybody to be happy again,'' Mary whimpers. ''We were happy before!''

Yep. They were. They were so happy. Worked their asses off to find that happiness and then it was all snatched away in the time it took for Oliver to fire the arrow that killed her. ''I know,'' she says, rubbing Mary's back.

Mary keeps crying quietly, hiding her face. She tightens her grip on Laurel like she's afraid she'll disappear if she even bothers to loosen her grip. Mary has always been an easy child. Maybe easy isn't the right word but adaptable. Her life has changed a lot over the years she's been here. Every year there's something new. A loss here, a new roommate there, a vigilante for a mom, health issues that will be with her for life, but she's dealt with it all. Handled each and every change with ease and courage and a big smile. It was inevitable she would hit her limit eventually.

''Mary.'' Laurel pulls the girl away from her gently to meet her eyes. ''We will be happy again.'' It seems like the best thing to say. ''I know things are rough right now but they will get better. We'll be just as happy as we were before. Maybe even happier.''

''You - You make me happy,'' Mary hiccups. ''You and Daddy.''

''You make us happy too,'' Laurel says, brushing a tear off her daughter's cheek with the pad of her thumb. ''You make us so happy.''

''I want us to be together.''

''We will always be together.''

Mary rubs at her eye with a closed fist. ''You won't leave again?''

''I won't leave,'' Laurel says. ''Neither will Daddy. We're with you, Mary. Always.''

''They won't take you away again? Like before?''

Laurel bites down on her bottom lip. ''No,'' she says, even though she cannot realistically promise that. ''Nobody's going to take me away.''

''And...'' Mary tugs at Laurel's sweater, grasping the collar just to keep her close to her mother. ''I don't gotta scare away the bad guys?''

''No,'' Laurel tries to laugh. ''No, you don't have to scare anyone. I don't want you to scare people. I don't want you to be scared either. Hey.'' She smiles as brightly as possible. ''I have an idea. How about when Daddy gets home, we go out and see a movie. Just the three of us. How does that sound?''

Mary appears to consider the idea for a moment or two, playing absently with a loss thread on Laurel's wool sweater. She stops eventually, leaning in to rest her shoulder on Laurel's shoulder. ''Trolls?''

''Yes, we can go see Trolls if you want.''

Mary plays with Laurel's hair and shows zero interest in moving anytime soon. ''Can we get nachos?''

''Maybe.''

''Can I get my own drink?''

''I think we can swing that.''

''Is Daddy gonna put candy in your purse?''

''Probably. Daddy likes to cheat the system.''

''Cheating is wrong.''

''It...'' Laurel struggles to choke down a laugh. ''Yes, it is. Don't cheat. However, when you're older, I'll teach you about what a rip off movie theater concession stands are.''

''Okay,'' Mary says. ''But I can still get my own drink?''

''Of course.''

''Mommy?''

''Yes?''

There is a lengthy pause before Mary whispers, ''I'm sorry I was mean.'' She still has her head laying on Laurel's shoulder, still playing with her hair and sniffling. ''I don't want you to shut up.''

''I'm happy to hear that,'' Laurel says, ''because I never shut up.''

Mary giggles a little and turns her head to bury her face in Laurel's shoulder.

''Thank you for apologizing,'' Laurel adds. ''I'm sorry you've been feeling sad lately.''

Mary doesn't say anything to that, but she does wipe her nose on Laurel's sweater so it seems like things are back to normal.

Laurel rests her cheek against the top of Mary's head. It's getting chilly outside. They should probably get back to worm hunting so they can go inside. But maybe in a few minutes. For right now, she's content to just chill out here. She closes her eyes. She can feel her nose starting to run, likely from the cool weather, so she reluctantly pulls away, reaching up to wipe at it. Her hand comes away red just as Mary's straightening up and there is no time to hide.

''Mommy!'' Mary yelps. ''You're bleeding!'' She jumps off of her lap, eyes wide in concern. ''Oh no, we gotta call Daddy!''

''No, no, it's okay,'' Laurel assures her. She holds a hand to her nose, trying to both stem the flow of blood before it gets on her clothes and keep it out of Mary's sight. ''I'm okay. It's just a nose bleed.''

''But Daddy - ''

''Can't fix this,'' Laurel says, tilting her head back. ''Listen, if I go to the bathroom, will you promise me you'll stay in the yard?''

''I promise.''

''All right. Please make sure you put Buzz back where you found him.'' Hesitantly, Laurel ducks back inside and hurries down the hall to the bathroom. It's not the worst nosebleed she's had since coming back. She realizes that as soon as she's holding a tissue to her nose. She tilts her head back again, grimacing at the feel of blood running down her throat, and blinks up at the light. This is her fourth nosebleed in less than two weeks. The last one happened in the middle of the night. That was a bad one. Poor Dean woke up in the middle of the night when she flicked on her bedside lamp and freaked out when he looked over at her and she looked like an extra in a bad slasher flick. She had to change her pajamas, her pillowcase, the sheets, and she went through almost an entire box of Kleenex.

Laurel tosses one bloodied tissue in the garbage and grabs a fresh one. This nosebleed is nothing compared to that one. The bleeding seems to have slowed already, which is a relief. Although she thinks she's gotten blood on the sleeve of her sweater. In the grand scheme of things, it's just a nosebleed and it's just a sweater but she can't help but feel resentful.

She had been doing such a good job of hiding these physical symptoms from Mary. There's no way Mary hasn't noticed the increasing fatigue and the lack of appetite, but Laurel has worked so hard to keep everything else to herself and now Mary has watched her bleed. She hates that.

The nosebleed stops fairly quickly, within just a couple minutes, and she breathes a sigh of relief. It could have been worse. She blows her nose, tosses the tissue away, and washes the blood from her hands. She gives her reflection a quick onceover.

She wonders, briefly, if she should attempt to hide the bloody tissues at the bottom of the garbage can. Not worth the effort. If she knows her daughter - and she thinks she does - Mary's going to tell Dean about what happened as soon as he comes home. That's just what she does. In her mind, Dad can fix everything. Every owie, every ailment, every scraped knee and tummy ache. That's another reason she's been trying to keep this from Mary. She doesn't need her reporting everything to Dean.

Laurel flicks off the bathroom light and starts for the back door. She doesn't get far before she stops in her tracks and whirls around. There's someone in the kitchen. Her lips turn down into a frown. It's too early for Dean or Thea to be home, and she's certain Sara had plans with Felicity for the day. Laurel glances once in the direction of the back door. Mary's a good girl. She'll stay in the yard. This will only take a minute.

She moves down the hall and into the dining room silently, avoiding the creaks in the floor. She pauses at the kitchen door. There's definitely someone in there. She wonders if she should go get a weapon to defend herself against this possible intruder. Except all the weapons are in the garage. She's probably getting ahead of herself anyway. She pushes through the door and into the kitchen. ''Sara?'' There is no one in here. Still, something doesn't feel right. Her body tenses up, hair on the back of her neck standing up. This really doesn't feel right. ''Dean? Is that - ''

She never even has a chance to scream.

A strong, muscled arm clamps around her waist and yanks her back roughly into an unfamiliar body. In the blink of an eye, someone is covering her mouth with a cloth. It doesn't take her long to identify the sweet smell of chloroform.

Laurel struggles against the strong grip and fights the instinct to gasp for air, holding her breath inside. Her attacker - male, tall, well built, strong - is keeping her flush against him, fingers digging into her abdomen, undoubtedly leaving bruises. A flash of rage ignites inside of her. She will not be kidnapped by someone too cowardly to look her in the eye while he hurts her. And _Mary_. She needs to get back to Mary.

Using the man's seemingly built body as leverage, she leans back against him, jumps up, and manages to kick off the counter, ramming him back into the fridge. It startles him enough to drop the cloth. She takes in a few gulps of air and fights through the wooziness, bashing her elbow back into his face. She hears a sickening crunching noise and he roars in pain, loosening his grip on her. She shakes him off, throwing herself at the counter and scrambling to grab a knife from the knife block as he reaches for her. Without hesitation, she whirls around, sends a kick to his shin, and when his knee buckles and he reaches out, placing a hand on the counter for support, she slams the knife down into his hand. The man howls in pain, and that's when she gets a good look at his face.

Holy shit.

She recognizes him. Even though the blood, the broken nose, and the howling, she recognizes him. ''Andrew?'' It's Andrew Denton. Her next door neighbor's older brother. She's met him. She's met him several times. He has never been anything but kind and helpful to her, just like the rest of his family. I mean, okay, maybe he's a little prickly sometimes but he's just a normal guy. He has helped her carry in groceries, he seems to strike up friendly conversations with Dean, and he has spoken to her daughter.

There is no time for shock or betrayal or anger because the kitchen door is starting to open and she can tell by the looming shadow that whoever is on the other side is not a friendly. She rips the knife out of Andrew's hand, earning herself another yell, twirls it until she's gripping the blade, waits exactly three breaths for the man - an unfamiliar one this time - to make it almost all the way through the door, and then she throws the knife. The knife sails through the air and hits the target perfectly, embedding itself into the man's shoulder. Not enough to keep him down but it's certainly enough to make him shout and stumble back, out of the kitchen.

Laurel turns, grabs the closest and heaviest thing she can find off the counter, which happens to be the toaster, and swings it as hard as she can. It smashes into Andrew's face and he just drops. She tosses the broken toaster on the ground, the tiniest ghost of a smile flickering on her lips.

And Oliver thinks she needs more training.

She goes for the door but doesn't get far before the door to the garage creaks open, there's a quiet whirring-like noise, and then there is a hand around her neck and something is clicking into place around her throat. She gasps at the uncomfortable feeling, almost like asphyxiation, bringing a hand up to her throat. It's... It's a collar. Similar to her old Canary Cry device but more cumbersome and she can tell that it's doing something to her, keeping her sonic scream at bay, depowering her instead of powering her, and that's what gives her a cold flash of fear and anger.

She has had it up to here with being depowered and dehumanized by men.

David Denton, the twenty-year-old son of Jim and Sylvia, steps away from her. ''Sonic dampener,'' he says. He tries for a smirk but he is sweating profusely and looks like he is torn somewhere between stunned and horrified at what he's done. Still, he tries for tough. ''Wouldn't want you screaming the house down, Canary.''

Oh.

So this is not some random unrelated robbery then.

Frankly, she's disappointed.

Dean has never fully trusted the Denton family. He's cordial, even friendly, he'll go to their Fourth of July parties and laugh with Andrew and Jim and he'll happily accept whatever baked goods Ida sends over and trade recipes with her, but he has never believed that their kindness is 100% genuine. ''They're too nice,'' he says. ''Nobody is that nice.'' She has always stuck up for them. People can be kind without having some kind of nefarious ulterior motive.

She's irked he was right about these people.

Just like with his uncle, she opts to go for the nose. It's the easiest. When in doubt, go for the nose. People can be such babies about broken noses. She doesn't have the time to fully engage with him right now because there is a big bodybuilder dude in her dining room and she needs to deal with him before he decides to go for Mary instead of her. As soon as her fist connects with David's nose and he rears back, grabbing his nose and whining that she's broken it, she roughly shoves him back into the garage. He tumbles down the three steep steps to the concrete below and she shuts the door. She doubts it'll hold him for long. Hopefully just long enough for her to deal with the bear in her dining room.

She pushes through the kitchen door and immediately has to duck to avoid the knife that's swinging at her jugular. That's the downside of throwing a knife at your problems. It always comes back to bite you. She can't help but let out a startled yelp of, ''Shit!'' She dodges the knife a couple of times before she's able to grab a hold of his wrist and drive him back, slamming his arm against the arched doorway of the dining room until he drops the knife. It barely even slows him down. One backhand from him is enough to send her sprawling to the floor, blood in her mouth from where her tooth cut into her lip.

She cannot stress enough how big this guy is. He's tall, massive, and all muscle. That's unfortunate, but the truly intimidating thing about him is his eyes. There's nothing in them. No hate, no anger, no sick sense of pleasure. There is nothing at all. It's like looking into a dead man's eyes. When she sees him go for the knife again, she scrambles to her feet and races across the room, making a mad dash for the dining room curtains. She yanks the rod down and grabs the curtains just in time. When he makes at stab at her, the knife winds up buried in the fabric. She twists until the knife is out of his grasp and the curtains are wound around his wrists. She yanks him closer, pulls her hand free, and lands a nasty right hook. It does make his head snap to the side, which is satisfying, but it seems to do little damage to him other than momentarily set him back.

She tries to take advantage of that momentary distraction by landing another punch, a left hook this time, and then another, and another, and even a couple of kicks, but the guy just will not go down. She has taken down several men at once before but she is nothing but a mildly annoying mosquito to this guy. He literally swats her away. She falls back, hitting her head on the edge of the table. She lands on her hands and knees, dazed, with blood running into her left eye.

See, okay, now she's getting kind of vexed.

This is just getting ridiculous now. She is the Black Canary and she can't even take down one goon? That's embarrassing. She will not prove Oliver right.

Laurel grabs onto the leg of a chair, gripping it tightly. When she hears footsteps approaching, she waits, listens, and then she jumps to her feet and smashes the chair over his head. Twice. Until it crumbles apart over his head. He folds like a wet napkin.

...For about five seconds.

She watches him rise to his feet, eyes widening incredulously. She backs away from the Incredible Hulk. ''Be honest,'' she says in her best disapproving Mom voice, pointing a finger at him. ''Are you on PCP?''

All he does is growl at her. He's breathing heavily but he does not seem at all bothered by the blood dripping down his bald head. ''I'm supposed to deliver you,'' he says. His voice is surprisingly quiet, but flat, completely devoid of any human emotions.

''Deliver me,'' she parrots. ''Deliver me where?''

He smiles at her. More of a grimace really. ''Home,'' he tells her, and then he charges.

The next thing she knows, she is being tackled. Lifted up in the air and then slammed down on the dining room table with his hands around her throat. It knocks the wind out of her, and the collar rises up, bashing against her chin. It also knocks over the vase of lilies that Dean brought home yesterday to cheer her up. She struggles, one hand pushing against his chest, the other groping around for the heavy crystal vase. Just as the edges of her vision are starting to go fuzzy and dark, she grab the vase, swings as hard as she can, and smashes it over his head.

Finally, he drops.

She groans, dropping her head back onto the table. ''That was a wedding present, you asshole,'' she mutters weakly. It was such a good vase too. Sturdy, reliable, and according to the receipt left in the box by Detective Hilton's wife, it was expensive. A good item to pawn if they ever get really down in the dumps. Also, the flowers were nice. She always loves when Dean brings her flowers.

She blinks and gives herself a few seconds to find her bearings before she rolls off the table. She doubles over right away, hands on her knees, trying to breathe through the throbbing pain of her head wound. She thinks the injury is most likely superficial because those tend to be the ones that bleed the most and she can tell that nearly the entire left side of her face is covered in blood, but it stings something awful.

''I'm so out of practice,'' she mutters, bringing a hand up to touch it only to hiss in pain and retract her hand. She wipes the blood on her sweater and slowly stands up straight. Then, because she's just having one of those days, the kitchen door opens, and there's a gun pointed at her.

''Don't move,'' David orders.

Laurel looks at the gun, and then at him. ''David, I really don't have time for this.''

He moves to grip the gun with two hands instead of one, which is probably a good idea because he is shaking like a leaf. ''I said don't - ''

''You're holding it wrong,'' she states, bluntly.

He looks thrown. ''What?''

''The gun,'' she clarifies. ''You're holding it wrong. And your stance is all wrong. Have you ever fired a gun before?''

He blinks some sweat out of his eyes. ''I - I don't see how that's relevant.''

''It's relevant because you're holding a gun to my head,'' she says calmly. ''It's going to be loud when you shoot me, David. Much louder than they make it seem in the movies. There will be recoil. Not as much as there would be with a shotgun, but it'll still be enough to startle you if it's your first time. This is your first time, isn't it?''

''I can manage,'' he says, even as he takes a step back.

''All right,'' she says patiently. ''I just don't want you to injure your wrist.''

''Why would you even care?'' He sneers.

She frowns at him. ''You're still a person, David.''

''Stop saying that.''

''Saying what?''

''My name. Stop saying my name like that. It's not even...''

''It's not even what?''

''Nothing!'' He shakes his head wildly. ''Just stop doing that.''

''Okay,'' she nods. ''I'll stop.'' She puts her hands up, trying to make herself appear less threatening. ''But, please, just listen to me. If you shoot me at close range like this, it is going to be messy. I don't know why you're doing this, but I know you're not ready to see that,'' she advises softly. ''You've never seen me without makeup on let alone without a face.''

He doesn't say anything but even with two hands gripping the gun, he still can't seem to hold it steady. His eyes dart to the left, over to the slumped body of the Stone Cold Steve Austin lookalike on the ground and in that split second opening, she takes the shot. She rushes at him, grasping onto his arm, and he startles. Reflexively, he pulls the trigger. The bullet whizzes past her and through the dining room window behind her, leaving her with ringing ears but otherwise unharmed. She manages to redirect his next few shots at the floor before she is able to get close enough to jam her knee into his groin. He collapses, making it easy as pie to twist his wrist until he drops the gun, catch it before it hits the ground, and pistol whip him. He sinks like a stone. For such a young, fit, spry kid, he is shit at fighting.

Laurel glances at the gun in her hand. Just to be on the safe side, she presses the button next to the trigger and extracts the magazine. To be extra safe, she grabs the slide, makes sure the barrel of the gun is pointed at the ground, and pulls back. The bullet in the chamber tumbles out and goes clattering to the ground next to David's prone form. Loaded weapons are not generally permitted in this house past the point of the garage. She pockets the magazine and tosses the useless gun on the table.

On the other side of the table, someone groans.

She gapes in disbelief, watching as the hulking delivery man lumbers to his feet. Jesus, is this guy made of vibranium or something? She moves as quickly as she can, pulling the nearby chair out and stepping up onto the table before even has a chance to turn around. She jumps onto his back, which definitely catches him off guard, gets her legs wrapped around his meaty neck, and squeezes.

Laurel likes to think she has some awesomely strong arms. She worked super fucking hard to get these arms. But, no matter how much training she does, sometimes she is going to come up against men who have bigger arms than her, so she's learned her thighs are her greatest weapons. Even her thighs are having trouble with this guy.

''Okay,'' she grinds out through her teeth, squeezing tighter. ''Come on, big guy. Go to sleep.''

Eventually, he does. But it takes a long ass time. Longer than this has ever taken. As soon as he starts to collapse, she releases her hold on him and manages to catch herself with a somersault before she hits the ground. She springs up and turns around to look at him, splayed out on the ground, seemingly unconscious. With a cautious frown, she takes a step in his direction and kicks at his leg. He doesn't move. She gives it one more kick. Nothing. He's definitely out.

About time.

All right then. Gotta get to Mary. That's the plan so far. She needs to get to her daughter and then they need to get out of here. Get somewhere safe where she can contact Dean. Team Arrow's bunker probably. She tugs at the collar as she starts for the hallway. It is getting uncomfortably hard to breathe. She's going to assume it's this. She doesn't know exactly how this thing works, but she knows it's halting her powers. The Canary Cry is useless, stuck in her throat, and it's beginning to feel like...like maybe the air is thinning?

Wait.

Laurel stops. When she tries to draw in a deep breath, it only ends in a wheeze. She brings a hand up to her chest and tries again. She sounds like a lifelong chain smoker having an asthma attack. ''Oh, shit.'' Frantically, she fumbles with the thing around her neck. It was a mild annoyance during the fight but now it is actively trying to prevent her from breathing so it needs to go. She struggles to find some kind of latch, breaths becoming increasingly shallow pants. ''Shit,'' she coughs out again. ''How am I supposed to - ''

''It's not the collar,'' a voice says from behind her.

She whirls around, eyes landing on the familiar figure, casually leaning against the doorjamb of the front door. Jim Denton, her soft spoken, sweetheart of a neighbor.

Here is a list of things she knew about the Denton family: Jim and Sylvia, both in their mid-forties, were college sweethearts, they live with their two children, David and Heather, ages twenty and eighteen, and his mother, Ida. Andrew, Jim's bachelor brother, comes around a lot for free food. Jimmy is a veterinarian. Sylvia is a hair stylist. Ida bakes the best pumpkin bread you will ever taste. Both kids are now attending the local community college. They are all incredibly kind and helpful. Would give you the shirt off their backs if you needed it. The definition of neighborly.

Here is a list of things Laurel did not know about the Denton family: They are, apparently, witches. Lying, scheming witches.

Or at least that's what Laurel is going to go ahead and assume. Considering Jim is standing there holding a hex bag in his hand.

She has never seen a hex bag in real life. She has been told about them, warned about them, but she has never seen one until now. The small red cloth tied into a little bag doesn't look scary, but do you know what is actually quite terrifying? Not being able to breathe.

''That's just a sonic dampener,'' Jim says, gesturing at the thing around her neck. He crosses the threshold of her home and shuts the door behind him. ''It keeps you quiet. You're choking,'' he says, ''because I want you to choke.''

That is one of the most sociopathic things anyone has ever said to her. And she has had extended interactions with a lot of criminals. Including Damien Darhk, and that guy was batshit.

Jim smiles at her, the same smile he wears when he drops off cookies his mother made at Christmas time. ''Can't beat your way out of this one, can you?''

She narrows her eyes at him. ''Let's see.'' She attempts to charge at him but immediately has to stop. Or rather, is stopped.

Jim, not the least bit afraid of her, just raises his hand, says something in Latin that sounds like impediendum and it's like her body just stops working. All of her limbs seize up and then go weak and she collapses in a heap, paralyzed and still fighting to breathe.

Well, fuck him and his mother's pumpkin bread.

''That's the problem with you vigilante types,'' he says, crouching down in front of her. ''You assume violence is the only way to do things.''

She tries to choke out a laugh. ''This...isn't violence?''

He smiles lightly. ''You should try to relax,'' he advises calmly, setting the hex bag down on the ground next to her. ''I know you're worried about your daughter, but you don't need to be. We haven't touched Mary and we don't intend to. My boss has no interest in her.'' He tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. ''Not yet anyway.''

She glares at him. She is getting air, enough to keep her from passing out, but it feels like her airway is slowly closing. Despite this, she still gets out a snarl of, ''Go to hell.''

He plucks something from his inside jacket pocket, a little black pouch of some sort. ''Now that's not very neighborly, Laurel.'' He sets the pouch on the floor and flips it open, brushing his fingers over a scalpel before selecting a syringe and a small vial. She doesn't even have to look at the label to know that it is ketamine. Just like what was found at the graveyard. Ketamine. A horse tranquilizer. Something a vet would have easy access to.

It was the Dentons. They were the ones who brought her back. They were the ones in the graveyard that night. They did this to her.

Laurel can't tell if the tears pricking at her eyes are because of the lack of oxygen or the betrayal. These people were at her 30th birthday party last year. They host the annual Fourth of July party for the whole neighborhood. When she was in the hospital after her suicide attempt and Dean was running around trying to wrangle Mary by himself, dealing with insurance, and trying to keep her family at bay, Sylvia took care of the garden. Every time they've gone out of town, the Dentons look after the garden and pick up their mail.

These people were their friends.

She wants to tell him how disgusted she is but she can't breathe. All she can do is gasp for air while he watches. He takes a moment to look at her, and then he takes some zip ties out of the pouch and removes a roll of duct tape from his pocket. He ties her hands together and her legs and when he's sure she's secure, he takes out a lighter, grabs the hex bag, and sets it on fire.

Air returns to her lungs with a whoosh and she greedily sucks in a few gulps of air. ''You...'' She watches him stomp out the fire, barely even sparing her a glance. She takes in a few more desperate breaths of air. The feeling in her limbs is slowly starting to return as well. ''You brought me back.''

''We did,'' he agrees.

''Why?''

That he doesn't answer. He just says, ''And here I thought you would be grateful.''

''Grateful,'' she spits out incredulously. ''I was buried alive. I had to dig myself out of my own grave. How could you do that to someone? How could you just...?'' She stops, swallowing hard and looking away from his cold eyes and his callous smirk. ''You were my friend.''

Jim stares at her blankly. ''You were never mine,'' he says simply, before going back to what he was doing.

This is not the man she knew. He hasn't gone to check on his son or his brother. He hasn't even _asked_ about them.

''You want the sonic scream,'' she accuses.

'' _I_ don't,'' he corrects. ''I couldn't care less about whatever supposed super powers you have. This is just a job. She's the one who wants you.''

''She,'' Laurel repeats. ''She who?''

''Don't worry about that right now,'' he says, ripping off a piece of tape and placing it over her mouth. ''You'll see her soon enough.'' He returns to the syringe and the ketamine. All of his movements are methodical and precise. His hands don't shake. He's not nervous. This is not his first abduction. He turns the vial upside down, expertly pulling the plunger back to fill the syringe with medication. ''I'm just going to give you something to help you relax,'' he tells her. ''By the time you wake up,'' he pulls the syringe out and sets the vial down carefully tapping on the syringe and squirting out a bit of liquid to make sure there are no air bubbles, ''this will all be over.''

She has no idea what that means but she knows she can't let him give her that crap. Among other things, she is a recovering addict. She cannot have ketamine. She tries to jerk away from him when he gets closer by he grabs her by the hair, forcing her to expose her neck.

''This is what you were brought back for, Laurel,'' he says. ''There's no use fighting it. No one's coming for you.''

The deafening bang of a gunshot reverberates through the air and suddenly Jim is on the floor. He's clutching at his bloody hand, alternating between screaming and spitting out expletives through clenched teeth.

In the dining room, Dean lowers his gun. ''I think I'd like to test that theory, Jimmy.''

Laurel feels her entire body sag with relief. It's a short lived feeling. The second she looks at Jim and sees the rage mixing with the pain in his eyes, all she can think about is how this man paralyzed her with a single word. When he moves, attempting to push himself up onto his knees, she makes her move. The vial of ketamine has been blown to smithereens by the bullet but the syringe is still intact, lying on the floor. She dives for it, managing to grasp onto it even with both of her hands zip tied in front of her, and throws herself at him. She struggles with it for a second but manages to sink the needle into his neck and push the plunger.

Jim whips his head around, locks eyes with her, and backhands her across the face. There is an explosion of stinging pain and her head snaps to the side, hair falling in her face and sticking to the wet blood.

Jim, already drifting off, is wrenched away from her and then, finally, Dean is there. He all but tosses Jim aside, crouching down in front of her. ''Laur,'' he sounds frantic, carefully moving the hair out of the way to get a good look at her bloodied face. ''Hey, hey, baby, are you good? Are you okay?''

He looks so concerned and so pissed off that someone has done this to her. As gently as possible, he peels the tape off her mouth and the first thing she says, more for his sake, is, ''He hits like a six year old.''

It manages to get a small shocked laugh out of him. ''I'm sure.''

''It was them,'' she says, needlessly. ''It was the Dentons. They're the witches.''

He pulls his pocketknife out and slices through the binds around her ankles. ''I gathered that.''

''There - There's someone else,'' she rushes. ''A woman, I think. They're working for her. They - Jimmy said I was a job.''

''Okay.'' He cuts through the binds on her hands. ''Okay, honey, we'll figure that out. We got 'em now. We'll get them to talk. Just...'' He hauls her to her feet, holding onto her arms tightly. ''Let me look at you.'' He turns her head to the side to get a look at her head wound and the collar around her neck. ''Jesus,'' he grimaces. ''Laurel - ''

''I'm fine,'' she says. ''Really, I'm - ''

''You bitch!'' The kitchen door flies open, banging against the wall, and Andrew, bloody face and all, comes stalking out. He looks enraged, snarling obscenities and going straight for her with one of the kitchen knives in his hand. ''You fucking bitch!''

He doesn't even make it past the dining room. The soft and recognizable thwack and whoosh of someone firing an arrow sounds and then the knife is shot out of his hand. He startles, stopping in his tracks and turning to the newcomer. ''What the fu - ''

The next arrow gets him in the thigh.

He shouts, sounding both pained and stunned that he has been shot with an arrow.

Laurel looks in the direction of the front door, expecting to see Oliver or Thea standing there. It is not Oliver or Thea.

Nyssa, silhouetted by the daylight, leisurely lowers her bow and looks over at Laurel. ''You get yourself into the strangest situations.''

Laurel means to smile back at her because she really is overjoyed to see her friend, but that is the moment she remembers - ''Mary.'' Her eyes widen in horror and her body just moves. She spins on her heel, pushes past Dean, and takes off, tearing down the hallway in the direction of the back door. She gets all the way outside and onto the back porch, calling for her daughter, before her brain catches up with her eyes and lets her see what's in front of her.

Mary, giggling and screeching in delight, playing with a jumpy golden retriever puppy and Charlie Bradbury.

''Mommy!'' Mary cries out without looking up. She's so happy and excited and completely oblivious. ''Mommy, look! Look, it's Aida! Aida came to - ''

Then she looks up.

She looks up from her puppy companion and her face switches from jubilant to panicked. That's when Laurel remembers that her face is covered in blood. She whips back around to hide her face but the damage is done.

''You're hurt!'' Mary freezes up for about a second, and then she's tripping over her own feet to get to Laurel. ''You're hurt!''

Dean, who had been right on Laurel's heels, practically pulls a Barry Allen racing off the porch to intercept Mary and swoop her up into his arms. ''Mary, Mary, she's okay,'' he says. ''Mom's okay. She just...had an accident.''

''No!'' Mary shakes her head, face crumpling in distress and anxiety. ''No, no, no, Daddy, there's blood!'' He says something else to her, something too low for Laurel to hear, but Mary refuses to hear it, adamantly shaking her head and squirming in his arms.

''Mary,'' Laurel calls out but doesn't care to leave for porch and get closer to Mary with her gore covered face. ''Honeybee, I promise I'm okay.'' It doesn't do anything to deter Mary's meltdown. She thinks it's best if Dean handles this one.

''Holy crap, Laurel.'' Charlie jogs up onto the porch, grabbing onto Laurel's hands right away. ''It's really good to see you and I'm so glad you're alive but - _holy crap, Laurel_. What the hell happened?''

''My neighbors turned out to be psychopaths,'' she deadpans.

''Oh.'' Charlie looks at her for a moment and then she wrinkles her nose in irritation and props a hand up on her hip. ''I hate when that happens.'' She eyes the collar still clamped around Laurel's neck. ''Uh, wow, okay, we should definitely get this thing off, huh?''

''Yes please.''

''Aida!'' Nyssa, looking as unruffled as ever, steps out onto the porch and whistles sharply.

The puppy, following Dean around, yipping and whining and nudging at his foot worriedly, snaps to attention at the sound of her voice. The puppy comes bounding over, clumsily makes it up the steps, and then trips and winds up plopping down at Nyssa's feet. She peers down at it, uncharacteristically fond. When she catches Laurel looking at her, she just shrugs and says, ''I have a dog now'' like it's a totally normal thing for her to have a pet. ''She is an idiot,'' she says crisply, which is a little more on brand for her. ''I would die for her.'' Which is also very on brand for her.

Laurel blinks at her, and then nods. ''That's nice.'' She looks back at Charlie. ''What... What are you guys doing here?''

''Dean called us,'' Charlie explains. ''We...'' She glances at Nyssa. ''We haven't had any cell reception for the past couple weeks so we just got his message. We came straight here.''

''I would apologize for being late,'' says Nyssa, ''but it appears we arrived just in time.''

Laurel huffs out a laugh. ''I'll say,'' she mutters, offering Nyssa a smile.

Nyssa inhales sharply when Laurel smiles at her, catching her eye with a slow smile of her own. ''It is good to see you,'' she says, stepping closer and bringing a hand up to touch Laurel's uninjured cheek softly. ''The world was less without you here, habibti.''

.

.

.

 **May, 2016**

 _DINAH LAUREL LANCE_  
 _1985 - 2016_  
 _THE BLACK CANARY_

 _Yep._

 _He still fucking hates this dumbass gravestone._

 _Tomorrow morning, bright and early, it's going to be removed and the one he paid for will stand in its place. Good riddance. It'll be better to see the other one standing here, the one that remembers her as a person instead of reducing her identity to a mask, but the rage that this fucking thing ignited is not going to go away._

 _''The Black Canary,'' he sneers. ''Congrats, babe. You're a fucking figurehead.''_

 _He pulls a bottle of whiskey out of the brown paper bag in his hand looks down at it for a long time. What a tremendous waste of money. There are bills piling up at home. He has to deal with medical bills, funeral costs, legal fees, he used all of the GoFundMe money on the headstone, the burial plot, and the casket, and now there's no health insurance for all of Mary's medical needs. And he has to deal with all of that now. He's the only one left. So, no, he shouldn't have wasted money on this. Even this cheap ass rotgut bullshit was too much to waste. But here he is. He twists the cap off the bottle._

 _''225 days under grass,'' Bukowski wrote, ''and you know more than I.''_

 _If there was one thing that dramatic old drunkard knew, it was suffering. Dean never understood what that line meant until now. There are many things he didn't understand until now._

 _He splashes some of the cheap whiskey over his raw, oozing knuckles and barely even grimaces at the harsh sting. ''Darhk's dead,'' he tells the stone. It feels stupid to be here, talking to her when he doesn't believe she's here but this is where his body took him. He wanted to go home so he pointed the car to her._

 _''Happy Mother's Day,'' he says, and then tilts the bottle to his lips._

 _''Did you torture that man?''_

 _He freezes at the sound of the voice. He slowly pulls the bottle away from his mouth before he can take a sip and turns around._

 _Black Canary is standing a few feet away from him, in the shadows. He stares and then stares some more. ''Laurel?'' He breathes out her name, awed. ''How are you...'' He stops. Takes a step back._

 _Other than a slight tilt of her head, she hasn't reacted to the sound of his voice. He can't see her face but he knows - he knows - it's her._

 _Except it's not._

 _His shoulders slump and he drags a hand over his weary face. ''Fuck off,'' he monotones. He turns away from her only to jerk back in surprise when he finds her standing right in front of him._

 _''You should sleep more,'' she advises, crossing her arms. ''You'd hallucinate a lot less.''_

 _''Go away,'' he orders sharply._

 _She doesn't move but her judgmental eyes peer up at him through the mask fitted on her face. This is not the Laurel he lost last month. This is Black Canary 1.0, complete with the platinum blonde wig and the overly stiff body language. It's strange to see her like this. He has an unlimited amount of respect for Black Canary but he can't say he's had a lot of extended interaction with her. Not like this. She belonged so deeply to Laurel. He didn't want to get in the way. But she didn't just belong to Laurel. That's what he's learned over the past month. Black Canary belonged to this whole city. She was a force of nature, a legend, and he never truly had the chance to know her. He regrets that now. He regrets a lot of things._

 _''You look like a deranged American Girl doll, you know that?''_

 _''You look like shit,'' she replies. She steps closer to him, into his personal space, inches away from him. She asks again, quieter this time, ''Did you torture that man?''_

 _''Do you think he didn't deserve it?''_

 _''That wasn't my question.'' She shakes her head. She looks disappointed. ''He was just a man.''_

 _Dean laughs cruelly. ''Just a man,'' he repeats mockingly. ''You know what? You can shove your condemnation. He wasn't a man. He was a monster. I'm a hunter. I was doing my job.''_

 _Her dark red, almost black lips stretch into an unnerving, sinister looking grin. Her white teeth stand out against the dark color of her lips. ''Do you think she would approve of the job you did tonight?''_

 _''She doesn't get a say,'' he barks out shortly. ''You don't get a say. You left.''_

 _''I died.''_

 _''You - '' He cuts himself off quickly, drowning the thought._

 _''I what?''_

 _''Nothing.'' He squeezes his eyes shut. ''Nothing.''_

 _She is still there when he opens his eyes. Just standing there staring at him. ''You've gotten your revenge,'' she says softly. ''You've slayed the dragon. Congratulations. Where are you now, Dean?''_

 _He has to swallow. ''What?''_

 _''You know revenge is meaningless. You watched it eat up your father and your brother. You saw what they got out of revenge in the end. It's a hollow victory, and you know that. You've always known that. But here you are. You've taken out the focus of your anger. Now what's left? You've got all these ghosts and all this grief. Where will it go now? Where will you put it all?''_

 _He can't answer that. ''Why don't you tell me what to do now,'' he suggests, trying to keep his voice even. ''Since you seem to have all the answers.''_

 _''I don't have all the answers,'' she shrugs. ''I'm not real.'' She looks at him closely, almost curiously. ''Did it help?''_

 _''Didn't hurt.''_

 _She regards him silently for a moment and then pulls the wig and the mask off, tossing them to the ground. He flinches at the sight of her. ''Didn't it?''_

 _He can't look at her._

 _None of this is real. He knows that his dead wife is not standing here. He's hallucinating. He hasn't slept. He took a beating tonight. Maybe he's concussed. This isn't real. He may be grief's bitch but at least he's self-aware enough to realize that. Reluctantly, he looks back at her. She looks like her now without the mask and the wig. She just looks like...Laurel. Like his Laurel. ''What do you want me to say?''_

 _She's right, you know._

 _Revenge is meaningless. He spent hours torturing some wannabe immortal wizard, waiting to feel something, waiting for it to help with the hollow ache, and all he felt was empty. Tonight was the closest he has gotten to Alastair in years. His body remembered how to do those things and he let it. He expected it to trigger the PTSD. He wanted it to feel good but he expected it to take him right back to the pit. But it didn't. It didn't take him anywhere. It didn't give him anything. He split Darhk apart until he begged for mercy, and he couldn't feel a thing. It meant nothing. An evil man is no longer a threat. Great. But so what?_

 _When he went to the crossroads back in April to bargain for Laurel's life, the crossroads demon laughed at him. Told him he had nothing to give her. He offered her his soul and she spit it right back out at him. ''That mangled, shredded thing? No thanks. I'll pass. Too damaged even for us. I mean, look at you,'' she crowed. ''So sad and pathetic, begging to burn just to get your little birdie back. There is nothing we could do to break you. Your hell? Sweetie, look around you. You're already there.''_

 _She was right._

 _''You're not coming back,'' he chokes out. He hasn't said that part out loud before._

 _He's been having a hard time lately, if that wasn't obvious. He's trying to figure out what it all means. He's trying to find his footing again but it's hard to do when there's no solid ground left to stand on. He doesn't understand how this new life works._

 _How did they get here? How did this happen? How do people go through this? How do they survive? He's cheated death before, they both have, what makes this time so different?_

 _Somewhere under the fog of shock and grief, he does understand the logistics of how she died._

 _Laurel was stabbed in the lung with an arrow. It was violent, painful, and bloody. When you stab someone in the lung, it causes a leakage of air into the pleural cavity and that's what causes a pneumothorax. In Laurel's case, the air couldn't go back into the lung and she wound up with a tension pneumothorax. With all the damage to the blood vessels, there was - in the doctor's exact words - ''an accumulation of blood in the chest cavity.'' That's called a haemothorax. He didn't know all that until he was standing in the waiting room listening to the surgeon explain everything while he stared at the droplets of his wife's blood on her squeaky white shoes._

 _Basically, Laurel almost drowned in her own blood._

 _She needed emergency surgery to release the trapped air and she needed to have the blood and the fluid drained. The stress the injury put on her body caused her to miscarry a pregnancy neither of them knew about, which isn't fatal but between that, the initial injury, and the amount of blood that had to be drained, she wound up losing so much blood that she needed a transfusion. She could have survived these things, other people have, but she didn't._

 _Her exact cause of death was a massive pulmonary embolism._

 _A complication, he was told._

 _A fucking complication. She survived thirty years of bullshit only to die of a complication._

 _''Sometimes these things happen,'' the doctor told him that night. Most of the things that happened after 11:59 are blurred and unfocused in his memory but he remembers that._

 _Sometimes these things happen._

 _Like it was just another day at the office for her. Like it was the same thing as cracking your phone screen or burning your toast or turning your laundry pink. Someone's mother died but - oops. It happens._

 _Dean understands the basic concept of what happened to Laurel. Her body was seriously injured, her body fought, her body tried, her body failed. What he doesn't understand is what's supposed to come next. There was never supposed to be a next. He doesn't know how he's supposed to navigate this new part of life that can be categorized as After Laurel. He didn't think he would ever have to. He never pictured an After Laurel. He always assumed she would have an After Dean. That was easy to imagine. Someone has to leave first. It was just never supposed to be her._

 _''You're not coming back.'' he says again, nausea rolling in his stomach._

 _She softens. ''Did you think killing him would erase what he did?''_

 _''No,'' he says, but then has to pause. ''I don't know.''_

 _She smiles sadly and reaches her hand out like she's going to touch his face. His eyes flutter shut, anticipating the soft touch, but it never comes. When he opens his eyes, she's gone._

 _He looks back at the gravestone with her name on it._

 _When she was twenty-two years old, Laurel tried to walk into the ocean in her funeral dress to go be with her sister. Got all the way up to her waist before she turned around, walked out of the water, and went home. On her twenty fifth birthday, not long before she met him, her car broke down and she had to walk home. She wound up walking across a bridge at midnight and briefly contemplated not making it to the other side. When she was twenty-eight, she swallowed a handful of sleeping pills, chased them down with a bottle of red wine, and went to bed._

 _Each time, she made the choice to stay. She got out of the water, she walked across the bridge, and she calmly told him what she had done on that February night in 2014 so that he could help her. She kept going until she reached the point where the only rooftops she jumped off were the ones where she knew she would hit the ground running._

 _Dean doesn't have any stories like that. He just doesn't. Fact of life. He has never been given a choice between life or death. Every time he's died, every time he's even come close, someone - or something - intervenes and makes the choice for him. Sometimes he's still not sure what he would choose. He's not sure he would have made the same choice to walk out of the water._

 _It doesn't make sense for her to be gone. It doesn't make sense that someone like her could be taken away so violently and so suddenly while someone like him still gets to breathe. It should be his name on that gravestone. That's what makes sense. This doesn't make sense._

 _''Have you been drinking?''_

 _This time, he barely throws a glance in the direction of the newcomer. ''No.''_

 _''Are you planning to?''_

 _''Thinkin' about it.''_

 _Nyssa joins him at the grave, lowering her eyes to the headstone. She doesn't say anything else about the booze. ''You made quite the mess tonight,'' she says without even bothering to look up._

 _His lips quirk up into a grin. ''I had some help.''_

 _''Yet another thing for Oliver Queen to crucify me for,'' she says mildly, and her lips almost tick up into a smirk._

 _''Fuck Oliver Queen,'' he says._

 _She definitely smirks at that. ''I took care of the rest of Darhk's...'' She pauses, frowns, and finally drags her eyes away from Laurel's name to look at him. ''What did they call them?''_

 _''Ghosts.''_

 _''Ah, yes. His ghosts.'' She does not roll her eyes. Although it looks like she wants to. ''I dealt with them. All but one.''_

 _He snorts. ''Let me guess: Andy Diggle.''_

 _''I could track him down.''_

 _''Don't bother,'' he says. ''What happens to him isn't our decision to make. Let his brother take care of him.'' When she doesn't say a word, he looks over at her, finally letting himself give her his full attention, and that's when he notices that she's holding a bouquet of flowers. Daisies. Laurel loved daisies._

 _''I burned the bodies,'' she states._

 _''Thought you smelled like burnt flesh.''_

 _She snaps her head around to face him so quickly he almost reacts. He's learned to anticipate these kinds of things with her. She regards him coolly for a moment and then relaxes. ''Did you get the totem?''_

 _''I did.''_

 _''You'll see to it that it's destroyed?''_

 _''Pretty sure it's fuckin' cursed, Nyssa,'' he deadpans. ''Trust me, I'm getting rid of it as soon as I'm sure that it won't attack me if I try to set it on fire.''_

 _''Good,'' she says, voice clipped and professional. ''I believe it's best to separate Darhk's ashes. Bury them far away from each other. You may think I'm being overly paranoid but neither of us know the extent of his powers and if there is even a chance that he could - ''_

 _''No, I get it,'' he says. ''We divide the ashes. Bottom of the ocean. Buried in the desert. Makes sense.''_

 _''I can handle the burial if you wish.''_

 _''Fine by me.''_

 _She goes quiet and when he glances over at her, she's eyeing the bottle of whiskey he's still clutching in his hand. She frowns deeply, meets his eyes just long enough to look disapproving, and then she tugs the bottle out of his hand surprisingly gently. ''Do what you wish with your own body,'' she says softly. ''Just do it somewhere else.''_

 _He doesn't protest. Not even as she steps away from the grave to dump out the liquor._

 _She looks different in the moonlight tonight. Less terrifying. Smaller somehow. Grief stricken would be the word. He wonders if this is what he looks like now. If this is how they're both going to look for the rest of their lives. There is a reason why Nyssa helped him with what he did tonight, why she was the only one ready and willing to tear the monster apart._

 _Very few people understand what it is to love Laurel Lance. She is - was - a once in a lifetime experience. Her center of gravity is so strong that it bends the light until the light is all there is; illuminating the darkest parts of you, warming you up. Dean has suspected for awhile now that Nyssa is one of maybe five people in the world who understands what the true pull of her gravity feels like. He's never said anything about it, not to her and not to Laurel, but he can see it in her eyes._

 _He watches Nyssa approach Laurel's grave with the wilted bouquet of daisies clutched in her hand. He takes a step back to give her a minute. She kneels before the slab of stone and places the flowers at the base of it. ''Rest now, habibti,'' she says, tracing the letters in Laurel's name. ''Be at peace.''_

 _He has to turn away, clenching his teeth together and shoving down the burst of anger. People keep saying that. He's lost count of how many times he's heard ''maybe she's at peace'' or ''at least she's at rest now.'' Well, fuck peace and fuck rest._

 _Laurel didn't want to die. She fought so fucking hard to get to that point and she fought so fucking hard to stay that night. She's not at peace. She's probably pissed the fuck off._

 _And why does she get to be at rest when they're all stuck here cleaning up her mess?_

 _''Did tonight help you?''_

 _He sighs at the question, pinching the bridge of his nose. ''Did it help you?''_

 _She looks surprised he's asking her. ''Justice does not stop the pain.''_

 _''This wasn't justice,'' he says. ''It was vengeance.''_

 _''You act as though the two are mutually exclusive.'' She looks at his hand, evidently catching a look at his knuckles. ''Are you injured?''_

 _''Flesh wounds.'' He's got a split lip, what feels like a black eye, at least one cracked rib, his knuckles are still bleeding, and his screwed up shoulder is aching again. But it doesn't matter. None of it matters. ''What about you? Are you hurt?''_

 _She chuckles and tilts her head to the side. She seems to think it's a ludicrous question to be asking her. He supposes that's answer enough. ''Dean.'' She takes a step closer to him. ''Will you take a drive with me?''_

 _He frowns. ''What?''_

 _''There's something I'd like to show you.''_

 _He licks his split lip. Might as well. He can't go home. Not until he can get his shit together. Mary can't see him like this. ''Whatever.'' He shrugs his shoulders and tries to look nonchalant. '''Not like I have any plans.''_

 _They end up in the Glades, not far away from where CNRI used to be. Nyssa has been quiet the whole way here, only speaking up to give him directions. When she gets out of the car, she disappears down the nearby alleyway before he even has a chance to shut the driver's side door._

 _''Awesome,'' he mutters sarcastically. ''Mystery.'' He slams the door shut and follows after her reluctantly. ''Look, if this is some kind of weird League initiation, you can cut the bullshit because I'm not into the cult shit.'' It's a weak joke, but he tries for a smirk as he says it. The smirk falls away when he turns down the alley and spots her standing there, staring at the wall of one of the buildings. ''What are you - ''_

 _He turns to look at what she's seeing and he stops, frozen._

 _For a second, he can't breathe. He stares at the wall, unblinking, and he can't breathe. He takes a step back, eyes moving along the wall, drinking in every inch of the artwork in front of him. He can't seem to swallow the ache in his throat tonight._

 _''It's a story,'' Nyssa says from somewhere behind him. ''Do you recognize it?''_

 _He can't find his voice to answer her._

 _The entire side of the building has been painted white. In various shades of gray, the cityscape of downtown Star City has been painted. In black, there is a bird. A canary flying high above the city. There are several depictions of the bird in flight, soaring, and then it falls. The cityscape falls away as the bird tumbles to the ground with a broken wing, bleeding. One of the drops of blood stretches out along the bottom of the painting until it becomes a ribbon. The ribbon becomes smoke and the wisps of smoke rise up and turn into roots that grow into a large tree. The intricately drawn tree looks strong and full of life. As the spindling branches extend up, all of the leaves morph into small black birds._

 _One bird, bigger than the rest, flies above the other scattering birds. It's a canary. The same one from before, now healed and in color. The bright yellow canary is the only splotch of color on an otherwise black and white mural. The bird is flying up, up, up, toward the sun._

 _There is only one thing printed on the mural._

 _1985 - 2016._

 _Dean stares at the mural for a long time. He can feel all of the anger and the adrenaline draining right out of him, wounds aching and throbbing and stinging. He can't seem to take his eyes off that yellow bird, flying into the sun, away from home._

 _''This will not go viral,'' Nyssa says. ''I appreciate the mural in Brooklyn. It is...a beautiful tribute. The artist is very talented. But I vastly prefer this artwork.'' She moves to stand next to him, close enough that their shoulders brush. ''It's a lovely eulogy,'' she says, ''don't you think?''_

 _He tears his eyes away from the bird to look over at her. She's not looking at him, but he can tell just by her posture that she knows he's looking at her. Even so, she doesn't bother to hide the emotion on her face. He wonders what it means that she trusts him enough to allow him to see her grief._

 _''I do hope she's flying,'' she whispers._

 _He looks back at the mural. ''Why did you help me tonight?''_

 _Neither of them look away from the yellow bird._

 _''Damien Darhk needed to be stopped,'' she says._

 _''Sure did. But that's not why you helped me.''_

 _''I owed her a debt.''_

 _''A debt.''_

 _''She was my friend. I...'' She looks at the ground. ''She was my friend.''_

 _He doesn't press the issue. ''I feel like I failed her,'' he admits._

 _Nyssa looks over at him, unsurprised but sympathetic. ''How so?''_

 _''I wasn't with her.''_

 _''What could you have done?'' The tone of her voice is perfectly calm. ''What he did to her was an act of cowardice. He used magic. He took her power. Held her down. She didn't have a chance. You know that as well I do. What could your presence have changed?''_

 _Dean turns away from the mural to rub at his sore shoulder. He steps across the alley to sink onto the stoop of the building next door. ''I could have been with her,'' he says. ''I keep thinking...'' He looks down at his wedding ring, mostly to avoid the sorrow in Nyssa's eyes. The ring is speckled with blood. ''She must have been scared.''_

 _There is no response to that. When he cautiously looks up, she's turned her head, wiping at her eyes. Super. Now he's made the deadly assassin cry._

 _''I couldn't save her,'' he says. ''I can't bring her back. She's just gone, and I'm still here.''_

 _''That isn't failure,'' says Nyssa. ''That is one of the many unfortunate side effects of being human. Sometimes we outlive our loved ones.'' She takes a seat next to him and offers him that tight lipped but genuine smile. ''If you had been in that prison, Mary would have lost both parents. You did not fail her. You lived. Living is not a failure.''_

 _He nearly laughs at that. Sure doesn't feel like a win. He rubs at the scruff he hasn't bothered to shave in a few weeks and leans his elbows on his knees. As he leans forward, something slips out of his shirt. It's the chain with Laurel's wedding rings on it. He hasn't been able to take it off yet. ''I don't know what I'm supposed to do now.''_

 _She doesn't miss a beat. ''You go home to your daughter.''_

 _''That simple, huh?''_

 _''There is nothing simple about it,'' she warns, looking at him with her piercing eyes. ''Darhk has been destroyed. You have completed your mission. Now is the time to mourn. Tonight, you are going to go home. Treat your wounds, take a shower, drink some water, and then get some sleep. Tomorrow, you will start grieving your beloved. Trust me when I say nothing about this will be simple.'' She sounds both apologetic and gravely serious. ''I have been here before,'' she reminds him. ''I lost my beloved as well.''_

 _''Are you talking about Sara?'' He asks, as casually possible. ''Or Laurel?''_

 _She looks at him with uncharacteristically wide eyes. Quite a sight. It's unusual to see the normally poised and controlled Nyssa Raatko so unsettled. He can't help but smile just a little. ''Do you really think I don't know what being in love with her looks like?''_

 _She looks uncomfortable. ''I wasn't - ''_

 _''Relax,'' he cuts her off softly. ''It's fine. Easiest thing in the world is to fall in love with her.''_

 _She still looks uneasy, but she doesn't bother trying to deny it either. She looks back at the yellow canary for a minute and then back at him. Her eyes slip down to the chain around his neck. There's a flicker of anguish in her eyes, but she's gone before he can even attempt to comfort her, rising to her feet. She steps back over to the mural. ''I suppose that means the hardest thing in the world is to lose her.''_

 _He laughs. He doesn't mean to, it's not funny, but it just comes out. ''The worst kind of pain is the kind you have to live through.''_

 _Nyssa turns back around once more with a small, sad smile on her lips. ''We may outlive our loved ones, Dean, but we never outlive our love for them. And love, after the fall, is the hardest part, isn't it?''_

 _That's an understatement._

 _Love, he has learned, is all landmines._

 _''Yeah, well.'' He looks past her to the artwork, the yellow bird flying away. ''All the best love stories are just ghost stories in disguise.''_

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

Dean closes the garage door behind him and stands in the silence for a minute, surveying the mess before him. Jim and the muscle head are still down for the count, lying on the concrete with their wrists and ankles bound, but David and Andrew are both wide awake. Dean puts his hands on his hips and gives them both a quick onceover.

Then he bursts into laughter. ''Damn, she got you good, huh?''

David can't even look him in the eye, lowering his head to stare at the floor miserably. Andrew, on the other hand, struggles against the ropes and growls behind the duct tape on his mouth.

Dean can honestly say he's not surprised that Andrew has turned out to be a gigantic asshole. He's always had a hair trigger temper. Guy has a mean streak. He tries to keep it hidden, but Dean's known bullies before. He had him pegged from the minute he met him. He's put on a friendly face over the years for the sake of keeping the peace, but he's never liked the guy.

He ignores Andrew's impotent snarling and turns away from them to check the bindings on Jim and the big guy.

The lesson here is: Never trust your neighbors.

He knew it too. It's not that he doesn't believe in kindness in general. It's just that he never believed in theirs. It was a smothering kind of benevolence. They were over compensating, he now realizes. Something about them just never sat right with him. And he was right.

Turns out, he's been living next door to a goddamn coven.

His father would smack him across the face and call him a stupid son of a bitch if he could see him right now.

Once he's sure the bindings on the two unconscious morons are secure, he looks back over to David and Andrew just in time to see David look up, turn his head to his uncle, and get a stern glare in response. It's a clear _don't say a fucking word_ warning glare. David visibly flinches.

Dean pauses, watching the wordless interaction closely.

Huh. Now that he recognizes.

He checks the tourniquet around Andrew's thigh and the bandage on his hand, just to make sure the asshat isn't going to bleed out on his garage floor because that would be a bitch to clean up, and then he moves behind them to check their ropes. Andrew has been fighting his bindings so Dean tightens the ropes quickly. David doesn't appear to have struggled against his at all, but Dean tightens them anyway.

He doesn't say a word, finishing up quick, and stepping back in front of them. He can tell by the hate and the defiance in the uncle's eyes and the fear and resignation in the nephew's eyes how this is going to go. Dean leans in close to them, offers them both a small smirk, and then rips the tape off their mouths.

David startles, inhaling sharply at the pain and shrinking away from Dean.

Andrew just unleashes a whole bunch of vitriolic bullshit. ''Your fucking bitch wife broke my nose!''

Dean says, mildly, ''You're lucky that's all she broke.''

''What did you do to my dad?'' David's voice is shaky. Andrew cuts his eyes to him when he dares to speak, and David visibly swallows.

''Nothing he wasn't going to do to my wife,'' Dean says.

David avoids his eyes guiltily.

''When I get out of here,'' Andrew grinds out, ''I'm gonna - ''

''You're gonna what?'' Dean cuts him off, staring down at him evenly. ''What will you do, Ricky?''

''Andrew'' shuts up real quick.

''David's'' eyes go wide.

Dean chuckles lowly at their reactions. He grabs a chair and sets it in front of them, settling himself down and leaning in closer to them. ''That's right,'' he says casually. ''We know your real names. We ran your prints.'' He looks over at Definitely Not Andrew. ''Riccardo aka Ricky Moretti. I'm going to guess Sleeping Beauty over there,'' he jerks his thumb in the direction of Definitely Not Jim, ''is your brother, Dante. Which would make you,'' he looks over at the kid, ''Matteo Moretti.'' He leans back. ''Your mother's name is not Sylvia Denton. It's Marlene Moretti. Her maiden name is Weber. Your grandmother is Bernadette Weber not Ida Denton. And your sister's name is Hanna.''

Matteo's head snaps up at the mention of his sister. ''Leave her out of this.''

''Shut up, Mattie,'' Ricky warns.

Matteo ignores him. ''Hanna had nothing to do with this. She never wanted to do any of this. Our parents - ''

''Mattie, I swear to god,'' Ricky snaps. ''If you don't shut your goddamn mouth, you pathetic little shit, I'm - ''

In a flash, Dean is on his feet, leaning into Ricky's space to grab his broken nose and twist. Ricky roars in pain, spitting out curses. Dean takes advantage of the distraction to fix a new piece of duct tape over Ricky's mouth. He rolls his eyes at the heated glare he gets in response and takes his phone out of his pocket, sitting back down.

''Riccardo Moretti,'' he starts, lifting his eyes from the phone to give Ricky a grin. ''Born June 3rd, 1967 to Giuseppe and Sofia Moretti. Your younger brother Dante was born four years later. You're ex special forces. Served for nearly ten years before you were dishonorably discharged.'' He shakes his head, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. He looks up from the info Charlie's been texting him to see how Ricky is reacting to all of this. Bastard looks pissed but hardly intimidated. ''Your temper gets you in a lot of trouble, doesn't it? I guess you're a lot like your father.''

That certainly gets a reaction. Ricky's eyes flash and he tries to throw himself at Dean, forgetting, for a second, that he's tied to a chair.

Dean smiles. ''Yeah, I know about that too. Your mother spent a lot of time in emergency rooms. Coincidentally, so did your ex-wife. Anita, right?'' He tilts his head to the side. ''You liked to smack her around, didn't you? Your daddy teach you that? You ever hit your kids the way your dad hit you, Ricky?''

Ricky seems to freeze at that, eyes widening.

''Is that why Anita left you and filed a restraining order?'' Dean asks. ''Did you put your hands on Elena? That's her name, right? Your oldest daughter? She'd be - what? Twenty-four now.'' He grins coldly. ''Time sure does fly when you're being a deadbeat and avoiding paying child support.'' He looks back down at his phone, scanning the texts. ''Or what about Mila?'' He questions. ''Your eleven year old? Her mother straight up fled the country to get away from you. You hit them too?'' He looks up, meets Ricky's rattled eyes. ''I have a hacker. She can tell me what you had for breakfast. I'd watch who you're calling pathetic, you sorry ass piece of shit.''

Ricky looks spitting mad now. His face is almost purple he's so angry. But he's not going to talk. Even without the duct tape, he is not going to give anything up. Dean knew that the second he learned the dick's an ex Green Beret.

Matteo's the wild card.

''We know who you are,'' Dean tells them both. ''What we don't know is why.'' He turns his full attention to Matteo Moretti, the scared twenty year old who looks like he's in danger of wetting his pants in terror at any moment. ''I'm hoping you can help me with that.''

The boy looks up at him, looking at him with an expression of muted horror clear on his face. He stares for a minute, bead of sweat dripping down his left temple and then his eyes dart over to his uncle. It's an instinct, one Dean recognizes well. Scared kids in over their heads tend to look to the one in charge for help. ''I...'' Matteo doesn't take long to crumble under the harsh gaze of his uncle, practically folding into himself. ''I can't.''

Dean recognizes that behavior too. He leans back in his chair, considering his next move carefully. He doesn't want to pull this card but what choice do they have? Jim - or _Dante_ \- isn't going to be asleep forever and given the way he was treating Laurel, Dean's going to guess he's not any nicer than Ricky. He needs to get to Matteo before his father does. ''Laurel doesn't think your uncle here is a witch,'' Dean says conversationally. ''Personally, I don't either. If he had any kind of power, he would've put a hex on me the second I ripped that tape off and he wouldn't have needed to use chloroform to subdue Laurel. I'm guessing, since they're brothers, that means your dad isn't a born witch either.''

Matteo looks startled.

''I'm not an idiot,'' Dean says. ''I do know a thing or two about witches, you know. I know that not all witches are born with their powers. But here's the rub, Matteo.'' He leans in closer to him, lowering his voice. ''I've been told that in order to resurrect someone, soul and all, you need the power of a natural born witch. So you want to hear my theory?'' He draws back slightly. ''I'm thinking your mom is the born witch. Probably your grandmother too. Every family's got something, right? Then there's you and your sister.'' He cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. ''Considering you had to come here armed, I'm going to go ahead and assume that you either didn't inherit the Weber hocus pocus or you're pretty low level. But your sister...'' He trails off and lets that hang in the air, watching the panic dawn on Matteo's face. ''Here's what I'm going to do.'' He rises to his feet, moving the chair back where he found it. ''I'm going to give you a few minutes to think about how you want this to go down. Either you tell me what I want to know or I'm going witch hunting.'' He leans in close to Matteo, out of Ricky's range of hearing. ''What do you think Hanna would tell me if I catch her?''

Without another word, trying to ignore the distress on the kid's face, Dean turns and walks away.

In the kitchen, Laurel is leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, eyes on the floor. Most of the blood has been washed away, there's a bandage on the gash on her temple, and she's got her hair pulled up into a sloppy bun. She's changed her outfit too, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. She looks better than she did before, but there are still smudges of dried blood in her hair and there are bruises forming around her neck from the collar.

Just the sight of it makes Dean want to turn back around and pummel these sorry excuses for neighbors. He may not have ever fully trusted the ''Denton'' family but Laurel did. She cared about them, she let them into her life, and this is how they repay her?

He takes a quick glance around the kitchen, closing the garage door behind him. Sam is sitting at the breakfast nook, fiddling with the smashed toaster. Cas is standing at the counter, making a pot of tea. Every few seconds, Dean can hear a bark coming from the direction of the living room where Nyssa and Mary are trying to teach Aida tricks and Charlie is digging up as much as she can on their neighbors.

''Well,'' Dean announces, gruffly. ''I'd say today's been a crappy episode of Fear Thy Neighbor.''

Laurel breezes right past that comment to ask, ''What do you think?''

He leans back against the counter next to Cas. He takes a minute to lean over and inspect whatever gross herbal tea Cas is making, shaking his head and pulling a face when Cas wordlessly holds out a mug to him. ''You're right,'' he says finally, turning his attention back to his wife. ''It's the kid. He's the weak link.''

''You think he'll talk?''

He avoids that question. ''I think he's got a bully in his life.''

Cas hands one of the mugs of tea over to Laurel. ''How can you tell?''

''Bruises on his wrists,'' Dean says. ''Noticed them when I checked the ropes.''

''They could be from the ropes.''

''Nope. Too old.''

Sam gives up on the toaster, dropping the screwdriver on the table. ''Dad or uncle?''

Dean shakes his head. ''Both, maybe. Definitely Andrew. Or Ricky. Whatever his name is.'' He swipes one of the empty mugs before Cas can ruin it with grass water and grabs the pot of coffee. He has no idea how long it has been sitting out but he pours himself a cup of it anyway. Mostly to have something to do with his hands. He's still too angry. He can't seem to calm down. He feels it's justified. He did walk into his house and find his next door neighbor trying to abduct his wife. He feels a certain level of rage is warranted here.

''We have to do this carefully,'' Sam says, standing. ''We put too much pressure on him, he could clam up.''

Dean looks down into the mug of black coffee. ''I think I applied the right amount of pressure.''

Laurel looks up from her tea. ''What does that mean?''

''I found his weak spot.''

''Which is?''

He doesn't answer.

''Dean,'' she prods.

He takes a huge gulp of the coffee and instantly regrets it. Not only is it cold but this is Laurel coffee. He loves her but her coffee is such weak ass bullshit. He chokes it down, takes another sip just to delay having to talk, and then says, ''His sister.''

''His...'' It takes her a second to realize the implications of what he's saying but when she does, her expression turns stony and she slams her mug down. ''You threatened an eighteen year old girl?!''

''I bluffed,'' he says calmly.

''You didn't need to bluff. You shouldn't have brought Heather into this.''

''Hanna.''

''Whatever! She's a kid.''

''It was a lie,'' he snaps. ''I know she's a kid. I'm not going after her. I just needed something to - ''

''To terrify him,'' she accuses, voice cold. ''He's a scared kid, Dean.''

''A scared kid who pointed a gun at you,'' he retorts. ''He put a collar around your neck. He attacked you while our four year old was here. He's twenty. He's not a child. He made his own choices.''

''Oh, like you made your own choices when you were in your early twenties?'' She retaliates. ''So December of 2000 was totally your choice?''

He clenches his teeth together to keep from reacting, looking away from her as soon as he sees the instant regret on her face. He turns his back to her, placing his mug down on the counter. He glances at Cas out of the corner of his eye and briefly manages to catch his gaze.

''Wait,'' Sam's voice says. ''What happened in December - ''

''Sam,'' Cas says, grabbing two of the mugs of tea and starting for the door. ''Help me bring the tea out.''

Sam wisely decides that getting out of the line of fire is more important than finding out what happened in December of 2000. ''Yep. Good idea.'' He grabs the pot of tea and the other mug off the counter and follows after Cas without so much as a word in Dean and Laurel's direction.

Gotta hand it to those two: At least they know when to get lost.

And thank fuck for that because Sam knows nothing about Edie. He doesn't know now and Dean for fucking sure is not planning on ever telling him. Sam doesn't need to know that particular sordid detail of their past. He thought Laurel agreed with that.

When he's sure they're gone, he turns back to Laurel. She's brought both hands up to cover her face, shaking her head. She drops her hands and he watches her haul herself over to the breakfast nook and collapse into a seat, leaning over with her head between her knees. He should let it go, given that she's clearly mortified. That would be the smart thing to do. ''This going to be a thing now, Laur? Every time you're pissed at me, you're just going to bring up that I murdered your cousin? I forget to bring home the milk and suddenly it's 'this is just like the time you murdered my cousin'?''

''No.'' She lifts her head slowly. ''I'm not... No. I'm not holding this over your head.''

''Sure seems like you're holding it - ''

''I'm sorry,'' she cuts him off. ''I'm sorry, okay? I'm... It's been a bad day.''

''Okay, so you're just going to hold it over my head when you have a- ''

''I shouldn't have said it!'' She bursts out. ''It was a mistake. I shouldn't have said it. What more do you want from me?''

''I want you not to say shit like that around Sam,'' he bites out.

''All right, I get it.'' She looks up at him. ''I screwed up. Is this how you're going to act for the rest of the night? Is there anything else you'd like to punish me for just because you're pissed at the world? If I wanted to be treated like I'm worthless and stupid, I'd go hang out with Oliver for the night.''

''Oh, that's...'' He smirks hollowly. ''Now I'm Oliver, huh?''

She doesn't give him the bait. She blinks up at him, expression stormy, and then she just shakes her head and looks at the ground.

He sags back against the counter. When he hears her sniffle quietly, all the fight drains out of him. ''Laur - ''

''They were our friends.''

He doesn't want to talk about that. He doesn't want to discuss the betrayal. He doesn't want to think about how these people infiltrated their lives for years. Invited them to parties and dinners. Brought them food. Shared jokes with them. It makes his skin crawl. These people have interacted with his child. Hell, there's been one or two emergencies where they've even had to babysit Mary while he went to go pick up Laurel from work or Cas from the farmer's market or ran to the grocery store. These people have been alone with her.

His instincts told him that something was off about them from the beginning and he just ignored them. Because Laurel trusted them. Or because he thought he was being too hard on them given his past with ''friendly neighbors.'' He felt something was wrong and he did nothing. He let them into his life anyway. He let them near Laurel, near Mary. He let this happen.

He deflates. ''I don't want to fight with you.''

''I don't want to fight with you either,'' she says. ''I'm sorry,'' she adds on again. ''I shouldn't have said anything about - ''

''No, it's...'' He rubs at his jaw. ''I'm being an asshole.''

She does not disagree with that. ''Maybe we're just in shock.''

No, they've just been stabbed in the back.

He stares at the fridge, looking at the mismatched magnets and the drawing Mary brought home from school yesterday. ''First week of preschool, they did safety training.''

She looks stunned by the abrupt change of conversation. ''...Okay?''

''And Mary,'' he goes on. ''You know her, she took it all very seriously.''

Laurel laughs weakly. ''Sounds like her.''

''The day they did the fire drill, she came home and the first thing she said to me, even before hello, was ''do you know about fire safety?'' It was a big thing for her. She talked about it for days. So Thea and I - We did an at home fire drill with her, and I remember telling her that if there was a fire and she got separated from both of us to go to the Dentons and they would help her.''

Laurel brings a hand up to her neck, to the bruises. ''This is so messed up,'' she breathes out, and swipes at her eyes quickly.

Personally, he thinks it calls for stronger language than that but - yep, that's about the gist of it.

He stands straight and grabs his discarded mug, dumping the contents in the sink. ''Did you call John?''

''He's on it,'' she confirms. ''As soon as he gets the okay from Lyla, he'll be over here with an ARGUS team to take them in.''

''Just like that?''

''Lyla says ARGUS is at our disposal with this. She knows we can't exactly use conventional methods here.''

''You're sure about sending them to ARGUS?''

''It's not like we can just hand them over to the SCPD,'' she says, standing up. ''And we're not killing them,'' she adds on hurriedly. ''ARGUS can contain them. If they can hold metas, they can hold witches.''

''Right, sure, okay.'' He waves that off, unconcerned. ''But do you really want to be in debt to a shady government agency?''

''I don't think we have a choice here,'' she says. ''These people need to be detained.''

He hates that she's right about this. He likes Lyla and all but ARGUS is a screwed up organization and he doesn't trust them as far as he can throw them. If they take in witches, there's no guarantee they'll hold them for long. What if they just try to flip them and set them loose thinking they can control them? He's heard tales of Amanda Waller's pet project that John was a part of. Who's to say they're not still trying to perfect the formula?

But Laurel's right. For hunters, there is one way and one way only to deal with witches and there is no way Laurel is going to let that happen in her city. A normal jail cell isn't going to hold a witch either. Even an amateur like Dante/Jim could find a way to bend the bars or mind control a guard into letting him go. They've got no good choices here.

It has to be ARGUS.

''How long ago did you call John?''

''About twenty minutes ago,'' she says. ''Maybe less.''

''How long do you figure it takes to get an ARGUS clean up crew together?''

''Probably not that long.''

''Then I guess we'd better get in there and talk to him.''

.

.

.

Matteo is primed to talk, Dean is sure of it, but he has to admit that having a softer, maternal presence might help the boy along so he's hoping Laurel will play Good Cop to his Bad Cop.

Laurel is apparently on the same wavelength as him because she makes sure to grab bandages, a bag of frozen peas, and has Sam removed Ricky and march him out to the shed in the backyard before they go in there.

None of this turns out to be 100% necessary because the second Dean and Laurel step into the garage, Matteo looks up at them and says, ''I'll tell you what you want to know.''

Dean and Laurel share a quick glance.

''Just please,'' Matteo begs. ''Please don't go after Hanna.''

As soon as he says it, something seems to click for Laurel and then she's shoving the bag of frozen peas and the bandages at Dean and rushing to untie the ropes binding Matteo. Dean doesn't have a problem with this because he's pretty sure the kid isn't going to be a threat without Ricky here and with his father nothing but an unconscious lump but he still schools his features into a cold, callous mask and snaps out a disapproving growl of, ''Laurel, what the hell are you doing?''

''He's not going to hurt us, Dean,'' she says, glaring at him without any heat. ''He's just a kid.'' She tosses the ropes away but stays crouched in front of Matteo, looking him over with her soft doe eyes. ''It's Matteo, right?''

The kid blinks. ''Y-Yeah,'' he stammers. ''Um, I mean, it's - I'm Mattie.''

Laurel smiles at him tenderly. ''Well,'' she says. ''It's nice to finally meet you, Mattie.''

''All right,'' Dean cuts in, clipped. He drags a chair over for Laurel and crosses his arms over his chest. ''Talk.''

Mattie looks at him for a brief second but almost instantly lowers his gaze. He seems to greatly prefer looking at Laurel, which is good because that's what they were going for here. Also weird considering Dean has never actually touched him and Laurel has beaten the crap out of him. ''You're right,'' Mattie says, looking back to Dean. ''My mom and my grandmother are witches. The whole Weber family is. Some of them have a lot of power. I've never practiced much so I don't really know my way around all of this, but my sister... She's like my mom.'' He releases a long, almost relieved sounding sigh, like he's just relieved that he's finally getting this out. ''We're from Buffalo,'' he says. ''We moved here eight years ago.''

Laurel leans in closer to him to press the bag of peas to the bruise on his head. He appears to instantly relax at her gentleness. ''That's when you changed your names?''

''Yes.''

''Why?''

Mattie lifts his head to look at Dean again. There is a flicker of frustration in his eyes when he says, ''Because of him.''

Dean works hard not to react to that, only arching an unimpressed eyebrow. ''Me?''

''You and your brother,'' Mattie says. ''Eight years ago, there was a war coming. The Winchester brothers were either going to save the world, or end it. Nobody knew which way it was going to end. Mom and Gran - They could feel it.'' He winces when Laurel gets to work bandaging the small cut above his eye. ''They knew that there was a good chance that people like us were going to get caught in the crossfire so Mom and Dad came up with a plan.''

''Run,'' says Laurel.

He nods. ''Change our names. Hide in plain sight. Uncle Ricky came with us because he said we needed protection in case something went wrong.''

Sure, either that or he was just trying to get out of paying child support.

''We were fine here,'' Mattie says. ''We were happy. We didn't get into trouble. And then - ''

''Dean Winchester moved in beside you,'' she says quietly.

He looks down at the ground.

Laurel looks over at Dean, catching his eye. He doesn't know what to say to this. It's not often that he's faced with ramifications like this. Actually, he doesn't think he has ever been faced with ramifications like this. He wonders how many other people there are like Mattie and his family out there. How many families of supernatural creatures had to abandon their lives and hide just because they heard the whispers of the Winchesters? It's never occurred to him before. He's tried hard not to think about the blast radius of the apocalypse.

''Mom wanted to leave,'' Mattie says. ''She wanted to pack up, go somewhere else, and start again. We'd done it before, we could do it again. Dad and Ricky refused. They wanted to stay and fight for what we had built here.'' He pauses, licking his lips slowly. He can't seem to look either of them in the eye. ''They were going to kill you,'' he confesses. ''Both of you. They were going to sneak into the house in the middle of the night and make it look like a botched home invasion.''

Laurel tenses, drawing her hands back.

''My mom talked them out of it. She said all we needed to do was be good neighbors and there wouldn't be a problem.''

''There wasn't a problem,'' Dean informs him. ''Not until now. Your mom was right. You were safe here. Why risk it all by doing this?''

''It... It was my uncle's idea,'' Mattie says. ''He said that he met a woman and she offered us a lot of money and all we had to do was this one thing. Reanimate your body and deliver it to her. Ricky's not a witch. He's not interested in all this crap but he's interested in money. Hanna and I didn't want to but...'' He trails off, shaking his head slowly. ''We needed the money.''

Dean stares at him. He's having a hard time keeping his carefully constructed blank mask from slipping at that one. The level of revulsion he's feeling is like a sickness taking over his entire body. Money. They did all of this for money. That's cold. No, that's beyond cold. That's heartless, vile, and sociopathic.

He looks over at Laurel, easily spotting the look of disbelief and disgust on her face. ''You did this to me,'' her voice is low and shaky, ''for _money_?''

Mattie drops his gaze. He looks, at the very least, ashamed. ''Yes.''

''How much?''

He looks up. ''What?''

''How much money,'' she continues, still speaking in that careful low tone, ''did she offer you to do this to me?''

He hesitates, swinging his gaze over to Dean like he's looking for help. Dean offers him nothing. Mattie sighs. ''A hundred grand. Fifty up front. Another fifty after the job's done.''

''One hundred thousand,'' Laurel says. She's not sounding like she wants to keep playing Good Cop. ''That's what my life is worth? Or, no, not my life. Just my body, right? That's what was being sold. My body. No soul and no choice. Is that not essentially some form of human trafficking?''

He pales drastically at that. ''I... I'm sorry.''

She doesn't say anything, doesn't snap at him or sneer. She just hands him the bag of frozen peas and stands, taking a few steps away from him.

Mattie takes her anger in stride, appearing contrite and regretful. ''I know that this was wrong,'' he says, ''but you don't understand. We're drowning financially. This city is poison.'' There's a brief flash of frustration in his eyes. ''Dad's practice is failing. Mom was let go last month because the salon can't afford to pay two stylists. And you know Ricky's never been able to hold down a job for long. We don't even have health insurance,'' he says. ''We can't afford Hanna's meds. She needs her meds. You know that. We were desperate.'' He looks away from them, gingerly bringing the frozen veggies up to his head. ''It didn't used to be this bad. We were doing fine for a long time but then that Green Arrow guy showed up and the Undertaking happened and the local economy - ''

''Went to shit,'' Dean finishes. ''We know.''

He can't deny the kid has a point there. Star City is not an easy city to live in. The economy, which was in trouble even prior to 2013, has never recovered from the quake, there's no real leadership in local government, the SCPD is dangerously inept, and it doesn't help that there's a ''terrorist'' attack every May. This place used to rely heavily on tourism. It was seen as an offshoot of Seattle. Then the rich got greedy, corruption took over, tourism started to decline, and Oliver Queen came home. Now it's just known for being Green Arrow's warzone. Nobody wants to vacation in a warzone.

Also, if you think the Seattle housing market is bad then Star City's is downright _insane._

Literally all this city has going for it is the fact that it's better than Gotham.

According to Laurel, The Flash's presence has revitalized Central City. He not only makes the place safer but boosts the morale of the citizens and somehow, the city's cleaner now.

Meanwhile, Green Arrow has all but destroyed Star City.

Largely due to the fact that he keeps leading ridiculous supervillains here and then failing to deal with them before they cause mayhem, mass panic, and general calamity. See, when you can't stop the bad guys before they kill off entire neighborhoods, your failure sends a message. One that basically just says: Hey, evildoers, this city's open for business because it's protector is a giant bozo.

The petty part of Dean is mildly amused by how incompetent Oliver is. The other part of him recognizes that he is a citizen of this city and it's fucking exhausting to live here. He's the one who has to deal with ridiculous wait times in hospitals due to the widespread violence, the constant construction and clean up crews, and the astronomical taxes. It's not a great place to live.

He doesn't love living in a country where his daughter has to learn what an active shooter drill is at three years old during her very first week of preschool, and he really doesn't love that they live in a city where they've had to tack on active vigilante drills to their curriculum. It's an absurdly horrifying thing to think about.

So, okay, yeah. He can understand this level of desperation. It doesn't make what they did okay in any way, but he can understand needing money.

''What went wrong?'' He asks, casting a quick look in Laurel's direction.

Mattie removes the bag of peas. ''What?''

''We know something went wrong,'' Dean says. ''If your plan had worked, Laurel wouldn't have a soul and she wouldn't be standing here with me. What happened?''

''I don't know,'' Mattie says. ''I wasn't at the graveyard that night. I was with Ricky. I don't have the power. My mom - She said...'' He frowns, squinting like he's trying to remember. ''The wording of the spell was off. And something about a power imbalance? But I don't - I don't know. I wasn't part of that.''

Dean tries not to let his disappointment show too much. He was really hoping Mattie would know more about the spell. If he doesn't know what's wrong or even what the spell was, then he can't help fix what's happening to Laurel. Which means they're back to square one on that front.

''The woman who hired you,'' Laurel speaks up. ''Who is she?''

Mattie goes very still at that. ''I don't know,'' he mumbles, dejectedly. ''Really,'' he says when he catches the looks on their faces. ''I don't know. I've never met her face to face. The night they brought you back was the first time my family met her in person. Before that, all of our communication was done through texts, phone calls, and Ricky.''

Dean raises his eyebrows. ''Ricky?''

''Uh, yeah. They're...'' Mattie pulls a face. ''Close.''

''Of course they are,'' Dean intones. ''That's a sad commentary on his decision making skills.'' That manages to get a small smile out of the boy. ''Your mysterious benefactor have a name?''

''Ricky never referred to her by her name,'' Mattie shrugs. ''He always called her Boss Lady. I think he was deliberately trying not to tell us her name. But Hanna said that the woman introduced herself as Siobhan at the graveyard. I don't know if that was her real name.''

''Siobhan.'' Dean looks over at Laurel. ''Ringing any bells?''

''No. None.'' She shakes her head. ''I have no idea who this is. You?''

''I...'' He frowns. ''I think I knew a waitress named Siobhan once. It's...probably not her.''

''Wait.'' Laurel whirls around to face Mattie. ''Phone calls.''

He looks at her blankly. ''Um.''

''You said there were phone calls. Did she ever call you?''

His eyes widen slightly. ''Oh - um, yes. This morning.'' He scrambles to dig his phone out of his pocket, surrendering it to them immediately.

Dean scrolls through the log of Mattie's received calls. ''Doubt there'd be a name,'' he says. ''It's probably a burner phone. I can get Charlie to trace where the call came from and find a location, but I doubt she called from somewhere that could be traced back to her real identity.'' When he sees the disappointment on Laurel's face, he hurries to add, ''But it's Charlie. I'm sure she'll fine something.'' He pockets the phone and looks back at Mattie. He hasn't even protested the loss of his phone. This whole spilling his guts thing he's doing, it's genuine. This isn't an act. ''Is there anything else you can give us? Anything you know that you haven't told us about?''

''No. Well...'' Mattie pauses and slides his gaze over to the two prone bodies on the floor. Dean assumes he's looking at his father but to his surprise, Mattie instead extends a hand and points at the nameless goon. ''You see that guy?'' He bites his lip nervously. ''He's soulless.''

''He's...'' Laurel looks at the body. ''What?''

''He's soulless,'' Mattie repeats, uncomfortable. ''That's what she does. She takes people's souls, takes control of them, and turns them into her mindless soldiers. I think it's for protection. She wants to be untouchable. I don't know how she's doing it, but I know that there are others. At least three or four. Probably more. And I know she plans on making more. These people - They're freakishly strong and totally loyal to her. That's - That's what she was going to do to you.'' He presses his lips together and looks down at his hands. ''What we did to you.'' He looks at Laurel, earnest. ''It was wrong. It was so wrong. It goes against all the laws of nature. I'll regret it for the rest of my life, and I know Hanna will too. But it...'' He offers her the weakest, tiniest smile. ''It is good to see you alive again.''

Laurel, not unexpectedly, softens at that. This is not something an apology can fix and it's not enough, but she softens.

Dean takes a long look at Mattie. He really does look like a kid. He's a young twenty. From everything that Dean has witnessed over the past few years, he's a good kid too. Loves his mother. Adores his sister. None of that was a lie. Even now, Dean can see that devotion written all over his face. It's a love he can recognize.

''Mattie,'' he starts. ''There's no way to make what you did okay and when this is over, you and your family are going to leave town and never come back, you got me?'' He waits until Mattie nods frantically before continuing. ''Look, I do get why you did what you did. You were trying to look out for your sister. And you did do the right thing by telling us all of this. So I promise you, nothing is going to happen to your sister. She needs to be brought in - so do your mother and grandmother - but we're not going to hurt her and if she's in trouble, we will get her out and bring her back to you.''

Mattie sags in relief. He almost looks like he's going to cry. ''You mean it?''

''You have my word.''

''Nothing bad is going to happen to you either,'' Laurel speaks up.

Mattie snorts at that. ''Trust me, a lot of bad things are going to happen to me. I ratted us out. Told you everything. If Ricky doesn't kill me, she will.''

''She won't,'' Laurel says firmly. ''No one is going to kill you. Tell me, are you planning on killing me, maiming me in any way, or stealing my soul?''

He scrunches up his nose. ''No.''

''Then you're not a danger,'' she says gently. ''Listen.'' She kneels down in front of him so she's not looking down at him. ''Your father and uncle made their choices here, but so did you. You made the right choice. They need to be locked up. You don't. If you let us, we can protect you. We can get you into a safe house and when we bring the rest of your family in, we can get them - and you - out of this city and away from whoever this woman is. You just have to trust us. Can you do that?''

Mattie looks at her for a minute, then at Dean, and then, slowly, he nods.

''Thank you, Matteo,'' she smiles. ''We're not going to let anything happen to you, okay? I promise you that.''

Dean can't help but think that's not a promise she should have made.

.

.

.

Later that night, at half past eleven, just as he's about to go to bed, he gets a phone call.

He is in the laundry room and Laurel is in Mary's room with her, trying to get her back to sleep. It has been quite the day for their girl. She conked out early right after dinner and didn't even stir when they got her into her pajamas and tucked her into bed, so it hadn't been all that surprising when she staggered out into the living room a few hours later with wet pajamas, crying about a bad dream.

It also hadn't been surprising when she'd asked, through her tears, ''Can we call Auntie Nyssa and talk to Aida?''

Both parents had simply been too tired to break the news to her that dogs can't talk so they just FaceTimed Nyssa at the hotel and let her, Charlie, and an extremely confused and disinterested puppy handle that one.

By the way, Dean still has several questions about the relationship between Nyssa and Charlie. Seven months ago, they barely knew each other and now they're travelling the world together and co-parenting a dog. It's weird and he has never gotten any straight answers from Charlie about what it is that they're actually doing on these travels. He knows they're not together, but...

You know what? They should be.

...Might have to Clueless them.

He's just transferring Mary's sheets to the dryer when his phone starts vibrating in his pocket.

As late night phone calls go, it's not great.

''Son of a bitch.'' He pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation once he's ended the call, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh. ''I knew things were going too smoothly,'' he mutters, stalking out of the laundry room. ''Finally getting answers. Course something would go wrong.'' Isn't that what always happens? One step forward, two steps back.

He finds Laurel in the darkened bathroom instead of Mary's room, splashing her face with cold water. She looks pale, even in the dark. ''Hey,'' he keeps his voice quiet, but it still startles her. ''You okay?''

''I'm fine,'' she says, accepting the towel he hands her to dry her face. ''Just a headache. I think I fell asleep in the wrong position in Mary's bed. What are you doing awake?'' She takes a step back from him slightly, puts her glasses back on, and gives him this silent, appraising look. ''And what's with that look?''

He sighs, sagging against the doorframe. ''John called.''

''John? My John?''

''No, my dead father,'' he quips. ''He just wanted to let me know that he's looking up at me and he still judges me for that one time when he said _new music sucks_ and I said _Pearl Jam's okay sometimes_ and then he told me to shut the fuck up.''

Laurel stares at him. For a very long time. ''Looking...up?''

He grins at her innocently.

She puts the towel back on the rack. ''What happened with the phone call?''

''Oh, well, I was in no mood for that shit so I said _no hablo ingles_ and he _said I know it's you, you little shit_ \- ''

''Okay, Dean.''

'' - And then I said _que_ and - ''

''Dean, honey, love of my life.'' She steps into his space to place both hands on his cheeks, looking into his eyes intently. ''You know I adore you, but can we please move past this bit?''

''I thought it was a good bit.''

''It needs some work.''

''Just trying to lighten the mood.''

''Why would you need to lighten the mood?''

His smile dims. He can feel all of the humor draining out of his eyes. ''Because you're not going to like what I have to say.''

''Oh god,'' she groans. ''What happened?''

He hesitates. He doesn't want to tell her at all, if he's being honest. He's not going to broadcast this, but she looks like crap right now. He mostly wants to get her an Advil and get her into bed. ''Before I tell you,'' he begins, ''I want you to know that Mattie is safe. He's at Oliver's bunker. They're working on getting him into a safe house.''

''All right...''

''The ARGUS vehicle transporting Dante, Ricky, and Soulless Joe was hit.''

She looks at him in disbelief. ''Hit by what?''

He pulls up the grainy black and white still from CCTV footage that John sent him and hands his phone over to her. ''Her.''

It's not the clearest picture, but he can just make out a figure standing near the crumpled and overturned ARGUS van. It's impossible to make out the woman's face or even any distinguishable features, but there she is. The woman who orchestrated this chaos. She's standing right in the middle of the intersection with her eyes on the carnage, and she looks completely calm. Relaxed, even.

''Siobhan,'' Laurel whispers.

Dean nods. ''Or whoever she is.''

Abruptly, she hands the phone back over to him and walks away. She doesn't even say a word to him. He decides it's best to give her a minute. He ducks his head into Mary's room, just to make sure she's sleeping peacefully, and then follows after Laurel. He finds her in the kitchen, slowly sipping at a glass of water. He stands across from her, leaning back against the counter, watching her.

''She used magic,'' she says.

''No doubt about it,'' he confirms. ''John said there were no sign of explosives at the scene, but something tore through there. He said there were no signs of a struggle either. No blood or anything. Just a hunk of metal and a bunch of missing bodies.''

''Wait.'' Laurel frowns, puzzled. ''She took the ARGUS agents?''

''Either that or she killed them and dumped their bodies somewhere,'' he says.

''But why? Why would she...?'' She trails off. ''Oh.''

''She's going to turn them,'' he says. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion. He's sure of it. It has to be that. There is no reason for her to take a couple of random ARGUS agents. They don't work for her. They don't have valuable information about her. She just wanted to increase her numbers. ''She's building an army.'' It's a grim thought. That this woman could just waltz in, abduct someone, and turn them into a soldier devoid of free will.

She stares down at the water in her glass. ''So basically we probably got those ARGUS agents killed.''

''Laurel,'' he pushes off the counter. ''No.''

She gives him a look. ''Yes. We did.'' She turns away from him, finishing off her water and putting the glass in the sink. ''Okay,'' she says. ''Why?'' She turns back to face him. ''Why does she need an army?''

He admits, quietly, ''I don't know.''

She sighs, sounding utterly exhausted. She closes her eyes and rubs at her temples. She looks even worse under the kitchen lights than she did in the shadowy bathroom. Dean pushes off the counter and moves over to her slowly, bringing his hands to her hips and brushing his lips against her forehead. ''Let's talk about it tomorrow,'' he suggests. ''You need to get some sleep.''

''You need to get some sleep too,'' she reminds him.

He makes a noncommittal noise in response and gently leads her out of the kitchen, hands massaging at her shoulders. He'll sleep when he's dead. He considers saying this out loud but somehow he doesn't think that would go over well with her.

''Hey,'' she says as he's marching her into their bedroom. ''Horrible thought: Do you think there's another apocalypse on the horizon?''

''No.'' He doesn't even think about it for too long. ''We would've heard something.''

''Are you sure?'' She asks, slipping out of her robe and draping it over the back of the chair by her vanity.

He doesn't even look up from searching for his phone charger. ''If there was an apocalypse coming and it was far enough along that random witches need to be creating full on _armies_ for protection, there would be other signs.''

''I hope you're right.'' She pulls back the covers and crawls into bed. ''I really don't want to be dealing with the end of the world right now,'' she says, and then lifts up his pillow to reveal his phone charger.

''It's not the end of the world,'' he assures her, snatching up the charger.

Laurel waits for him to plug his phone in and climb into bed next to her before she asks, ''Then what's the plan here?'' She takes her glasses off and puts them on her bedside table before snagging something from her drawer. ''She's just greedy and egotistical?''

''Could be. Could be she wants protection from hunters. Maybe even from other witches. Wouldn't be the first time some low level nobody thought they were hot shit and wound up pissing off the wrong person. Or she could be planning something.'' He scrunches his nose up, looking over at her hands suspiciously as she rubs lotion on her hands and arms. ''What the hell is that smell?''

She looks somehow offended by that question. ''What do you mean what the hell is that smell? It's pomegranate.'' She holds out her hands for him to sniff. ''You don't think that smells amazing?''

''I think it smells strong.''

''It's the hand cream Nyssa and Charlie brought me. It's from Greece. They also got me this wild rose illuminating face mask thing. It was like fifty dollars.''

Dean stares at her, appalled. ''For face cream?''

''Yes, and they also got you two types of aftershave balm - one's marigold and ginseng and the other's, like, cedarwood and a bunch of other stuff - and this antiaging sleeping facial so they definitely spent more money on you than me.''

Dean looks at her for a second, then frowns, and then crosses his arms over his chest. It's possible he pouts a bit. ''...Antiaging?''

She rolls her eyes, turns off the lamp on her side, and lies down.

''Just saying,'' he mumbles. ''That seems kind of pointed.''

''Honey.'' She reaches up to pat at his chest. ''You're hot as hell and you just keep getting better with age.''

''All I'm asking for.'' He follows her lead, turning off his lamp and lying down next to her. ''You're pretty okay yourself.''

She raises a single eyebrow. ''Pretty. _Okay_.''

He laughs, rolling onto his side and grabbing her hand, bringing it closer so he can kiss the back of it. ''I joke because I know I married up.''

''As long as you're aware of it.'' He rolls back onto his back and she scoots closer to rest her head on his chest. ''We should have a spa day tomorrow,'' she says. ''You, me, and Mary.''

''A spa day?''

''We didn't get to go to the movies tonight so we have to do something just the three of us. We'll do facials, cucumbers over our eyes, and maybe a mani/pedi. Listen,'' she pokes at his chest, ''I know you both love a good spa day. Don't lie to me.''

He doesn't even bother trying to deny it. ''I do love a good face mask. That's why I look so good.''

She buries her face in his chest to muffle her laughter.

Even her laugh sounds tired. Genuine, but exhausted. With her pressed this close to him, he can tell that she's running a fever as well. He looks down at her, trying to push back his frown. ''You sure you're okay?'' He asks, keeping his voice quiet. ''You feel warm.''

''I'm okay,'' she says, tilting her head up to offer him a smile. ''Just tired and bruised. So you know what would help with that? A spa day.''

He tries for a laugh. ''All right,'' he says. ''Spa day it is.''

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Almost two weeks after his wife's mysterious resurrection, Dean wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed.

He reaches for her, half asleep, and finds only the empty space where she should be. Groggily, he blinks open his eyes. ''Laur?'' He pushes himself up to scan the darkened bedroom for her familiar figure. For a brief heart stopping moment, he thinks maybe it was all a dream. Maybe she never came home and he's still stuck living in a world without her.

Except he can still smell that pomegranate hand lotion she put on and he can just make out her glasses sitting on the bedside table where she left them. He tries to relax. She's probably just back with Mary. He flops back down onto the pillow, closing his eyes. Unfortunately, that spike of fear based adrenaline, however brief it was, woke him right up.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. There are no glow in the dark stars on this ceiling. He runs a hand over his face and lies in the dark for maybe a minute before he decides he needs to go find her. He's never going to be able to get back to sleep until he's sure she's okay.

He checks the time on his phone before he moves, sighing heavily when he sees 3:08 staring back at him. Hauling himself out of bed at three in the morning to go search for her when she's most likely just checking on their daughter or in the bathroom seems like overkill, but there's this nagging sensation of dread coiling in his gut. It's been following him around ever since she came home and it won't leave him alone. It's like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He reluctantly crawls out of the warm, cozy bed and heads out into the hall. If she is back with Mary then he should go get her. Mary's bed is not somewhere a grown adult should spend a long period of time. That's his excuse and he's sticking to it. Dean is just approaching Mary's room when he stops in his tracks. There is a faint all too familiar sound coming from behind the bathroom door. He rockets across the hall and bursts into the bathroom without even bothering to knock.

There are no lights on in the bathroom but he can still see Laurel, down on her knees in front of the toilet, puking up her dinner. ''Shit.'' He steps into the room, shutting the door behind him and rushing to her side to gather her hair up and out of her face. ''Babe, how long have you been in here?''

All she manages to get out in between retches is a small whimper.

He can tell that she's trying to catch her breath but her body is just not working with her. When she retches again, her whole body shuddering, he rubs her back and dutifully keeps her hair out of her face. ''I know, honey,'' he murmurs. ''I know it sucks.'' He doesn't have to turn on the lights to see that she looks awful. She's drenched in sweat, she's burning up with fever, and - oh yeah, she's violently vomiting her guts out. His very first thought is that it's her head. She hit her temple on the side of the table. She could have a concussion. She could have a brain bleed. It doesn't matter that she seemed fine. A lot of people seem fine immediately after hitting their heads and then their condition deteriorates later.

But he knows that's not the most likely explanation. Not in this situation. The most likely explanation in this situation is the same explanation for everything that's been going on with her health lately.

When there is finally a break in her retches and he can hear her sucking in oxygen, he reaches up to flush the toilet. She doesn't move, still hovering over the bowl, but she tries to talk. ''I - I think...'' Her voice sounds slurred and exhausted. He doesn't know how long she's been in here sick and all alone, but it's clear that her body is spent. A single sob wrenches free. ''Something's wrong. My whole body feels like it's on fire.''

Dean feels like his entire body has gone numb. He thinks the other shoe has just dropped. It wasn't supposed to happen this fast. Very gently, he helps her move back into a sitting position, sitting back against the bathtub. He feels her forehead with the back of his hand, then her cheeks. No wonder she feels like she's on fire.

''I don't know what's wrong,'' she gets out, reaching a shaky hand out to clutch at his. ''Maybe it's a concussion. Maybe I'm... I...'' She works her mouth soundlessly for a second, struggling, and then groans and closes her eyes. ''I really don't feel well.''

''I know, sweetheart, I'm...'' Sorry. He's sorry. He looks down at her hand, grasping onto his desperately. It is unequivocally cowardly to be this selfish. To be keeping this from her. This is not a concussion. This is not a brain bleed. He knows what's wrong with her. He knows why it's happening, what's making her sick, why she's been so tired lately, and he hasn't told her.

During one of their worst fights, back when she was pregnant and sick, he was being an asshole, and they were both moody and terrified, she accused him of being just like her father. She had been talking about his drinking. How he was drowning his grief in alcohol and work, ignoring the people left behind and just generally acting like a nasty piece of work. She was right. The very next day, he told her that he was going to quit hunting, quit drinking, and re-proposed to her. He never wanted to be anything like her father. Or his for that matter. But here they are.

Last year, her father kept his deal with Darhk to himself and didn't tell her that she was in danger, that Mary was in danger, until she confronted him with proof and he couldn't deny it. And by then it was too late. And then she died. She was brutally murdered, actually. A direct consequence of what Quentin did and what he kept from her. How can he not see the similarities?

''It's the spell,'' Dean says.

Laurel opens her eyes to look at him, shaken. ''...What?''

A soft knock on the door ends the explanation before it can begin. Dean turns his head just as the door squeaks open and Thea pokes her head in. ''I thought I heard...'' She stops the seconds she lays eyes on Laurel, concern flickering in her eyes. ''Oh my god, Laurel, are you okay?'' She pushes farther into the room, instinctively flicking on the overhead lights.

Light floods into the small space, illuminating Laurel's sweaty, sickly appearance. She looks like a ghost. She cries out when the light turns on, squeezing her eyes shut again and clutching at her head. Thea immediately turns off the light, plunging them back into darkness, but the damage is done. Laurel makes this noise in the back of her throat, torn between a moan and a sob, and jolts back over to the toilet, gagging and bringing up more bile.

''Thea,'' Dean looks over at her, keeping both his voice and his expression as calm as he can. ''Do me a favor and grab Laurel some water.''

Thea does not respond to that, instead inching her way closer to them. ''Is she okay? I know she hit her head and if she has a concussion - ''

''It's not a concussion,'' he says.

''Uh-huh.'' She does not look impressed or convinced. ''Well, Natasha Richardson didn't think she had a concussion either.''

''It's nothing like that,'' he tries to assure her. ''She's... It's a long story.''

''Did you get her pregnant _already_?''

''What? No. It's been _two weeks_. How would that even - Can you just - ''

''All right, all right,'' she holds her hands up in surrender. ''I'll get her some water.'' She gives Laurel one last worried look and then spins on her heel and leaves the room.

Dean allows himself exactly five minutes of panic, trying to figure out what the hell he can do to stop this, petrified that he's about to watch his wife die right in front of his eyes - for the second time, if anyone's counting - and then he squashes it down. He doesn't have the time or the patience for his own emotions right now. This is happening to Laurel. She's the one sick and in pain.

She is completely miserable. He can see it on her face. She's shaking too, her entire body trembling. He can feel it when he places his hand on her back.

''What...'' Her voice sounds rough and hoarse when she finally stops retching long enough to speak. She seems to be having a harder time catching her breath this time. ''What's happening to me?''

''The spell they used to bring you back is what's been making you sick,'' he says. He makes a weak attempt to just leave it at that, especially when she starts heaving again, suffering through yet another round of vomiting, but there's no way she's going to let him off the hook this easy.

When she's finished vomiting, collapsing back against the bathtub in a boneless heap, she looks at him with sharp eyes and says, in a surprisingly even tone of voice, ''Tell me what that means.''

He flushes the toilet and rises to his feet, snatching a wash cloth off the towel rack. ''It's...'' He pauses, inhaling sharply and licking his lips uncomfortably. ''It's breaking down.'' He turns on the faucet and holds the washcloth under the cold water. ''They didn't mean to bring you all the way back.'' He wrings the towel out and crouches back down in front of her. Gently, he starts dabbing at her forehead with the cool cloth. She closes her eyes and doesn't speak for a minute, letting him drag the cloth from her forehead to her cheeks to the back of her neck. ''It's not strong enough to keep you here,'' he adds on quietly. ''We've been trying to figure out a way to fix it. At least...patch it. Give you more time.''

She presses her lips together when he says that last part, opening her eyes to stare at him. ''More time,'' she whispers. ''How... How much time do I have right now?''

He doesn't look her in the eye, focusing on cooling her down. ''I don't know.''

''Who else knows about this?'' She asks, clearing her throat. ''You said we. I'm assuming that means Sam and - ''

''Sam doesn't know,'' he says. ''Just Cas.''

She nods. She doesn't look angry. Yet. She doesn't even look scared. She looks like she's processing. And like she's in pain. She takes the cloth from him and closes her eyes again, leaning back against the tub, holding the cloth to her throat. ''How long?''

''How long what?''

''How long have you known?''

No use hiding it now. ''Since the beginning.''

''You knew.'' She opens her eyes. She still doesn't look as angry as he would have expected, but she sure as hell looks betrayed. ''You knew what was happening to me this whole time,'' she says, eyes glistening, ''and you didn't tell me.''

''No,'' he admits. ''I didn't.''

''This is my body, Dean.''

''I didn't want you to be scared.''

That is not a good enough explanation.

You know, it's strange. He imagined this happening differently. He figured that when she learned the truth, there would be groveling. As it is, he's far more concerned with getting her fever down. He'll beg for forgiveness later. ''Look, I promise you can be as angry as you want,'' he swears, standing. ''You can yell at me, hate me, never trust me again, whatever you want. I'll understand. But right now we need to get your fever down and make sure you don't end up dehydrated.'' The fact that she doesn't even bother to protest when he scoops her up into his arms is...worrying. She just winds one arm around his neck, still clutching the cloth, and keeps the other curled around her stomach.

He honestly does not care, at this particular moment in time, if she's mad. He's in crisis mode. All he can think about is that they're going to need more damp wash cloths to help get her fever down, he doesn't know where the thermometer is, and he needs to get her sipping at some water so she doesn't wind up needing IV fluids. Or maybe sucking on some ice. That was the only thing that helped her when she was pregnant. It's worth trying now.

He's just gotten her settled in the bed when Thea returns, hurrying into the room with the glass of water. ''Have you taken an Advil?''

Laurel nods. She takes a tiny sip of the water but even that seems to be difficult for her. ''I took one earlier,'' she rasps. ''At like eleven? Eleven thirty?''

''That was awhile ago,'' Thea says gently. ''Maybe you should take another one. Or a Tylenol. I - I think you're supposed to alternate for fevers, right?'' She looks at Dean for guidance. ''Do we have Tylenol?''

They don't. It's not on the list of approved medications. Not that it matters anyway. He doesn't think medication is going to do anything for her. ''I don't know if I'd be able to keep it down,'' Laurel croaks out, before he has a chance to say anything. She reaches over to put the basically untouched glass of water on the bedside table. She gingerly shifts herself into a position perched on the side of the bed, both arms wound around her stomach like she's trying to keep her insides from falling out.

''Maybe some ice,'' Dean suggests cautiously, looking at Thea. He's not sure that will help either, but he can tell that Thea is rapidly going from mildly concerned to seriously concerned. ''Can you - ''

''Ice,'' Thea says. ''Got it.''

He waits until she's out of the room before he takes a seat next to Laurel, taking the cloth from her hand and moving it to the back of her neck. He really doesn't like the way her breathing has changed in the past couple of minutes. It's starting to sound ragged and uneven. ''How do you feel?''

''Dizzy,'' she says. ''Hot. Really hot. Dean,'' she sounds helpless. ''Is this going to go away? Am I going to feel better? Or is this...?'' Tears start spilling down her cheeks. ''I don't want to - ''

''I know,'' he cuts her off, mostly because he selfishly does not want to hear her say the words. ''You won't. If witchcraft is causing this then witchcraft can fix this.''

She asks, in a very small voice, ''But what if it can't?''

He doesn't have a good answer for her.

She wipes at her eyes. ''Where's Mary?''

''She's sleeping.''

''I don't...'' A sob catches in her throat and her face crumples, tears still rolling down her ashen cheeks. ''I don't want her to see this.''

He tries not to flinch at the implication of what she's saying. ''She won't,'' he says, smoothing hair out of her face.

''I promised her I wouldn't leave her,'' she cries.

''You're not going to leave her.'' He tries to make it sound as firm as possible. ''You're not going anywhere. Laurel, I promise I'm going to fix this.''

''You can't promise that. You can't know.'' She shakes her head miserably, sniffling. ''I think - I think you should call my dad,'' she says, wiping at her eyes again. ''And Sara. She's - She's with Ollie. They should know. I need them to be here if... I need them, okay?''

He swallows hard but nods. ''Okay. I can do that. I'll call them,'' he says, but doesn't reach for his phone. ''Laurel,'' he tries. ''I'm sorry. I'm - ''

''If this isn't related to her head wound,'' Thea's voice says as she ducks back into the room with the cup of ice. ''It's probably just a bug, right?'' She hands the cup over to Laurel. ''There's a stomach thing going around right now. I bet Mary brought it home from school.''

Laurel doesn't say a word, but she puts the cup of ice on the bedside table without taking a single piece of it and she looks like she's about to start crying again. Dean feels...claustrophobic, would be the word. There is no getting out of this. Cat's out of the bag. He scrubs a hand over his face wearily and dabs at Laurel's sweaty face again with the cloth. ''Thea, I need you to call Cas and tell him to get over here.''

''Why?'' She arches an eyebrow. ''It's the flu. What's he going to do? Rub honey all over her?''

''It's not the flu.''

She frowns and looks in between them, brows furrowing in suspicion. ''Uh, can someone please explain to me what the hell is going on here? Because you both clearly know what's up and I'd really like to - ''

''Dean.'' Laurel's voice is shaky and urgent sounding and when he looks back at her, he can see that her skin is starting to take on a sickly gray-ish hue. He realizes what's about to happen seconds too late. He lunges for the trashcan over by her vanity but doesn't quite manage to get to her in time.

Laurel doubles over in pain, retches once again, and vomits up a river of blood. Just blood. It is not bile or stomach acid. Just blood. And a lot of it. Most of it splatters onto the floor but some of it winds up down her front, staining the shirt she's wearing. He gets the trashcan in front of her seconds before she heaves again, pushing her hair back out of her face gently. Again, all that comes up is blood. ''Okay.'' Somehow, he manages to keep his voice calm. She's sobbing in between heaves and the entire room is full of this paralyzing fear, but he keeps his voice as even as he possibly can. ''That's okay.'' He rubs her knee. ''If you need to throw up, throw up. Don't worry about it.''

''Dean,'' Thea's voice sounds shaky. ''What is going on? This isn't... We need to get her to a hospital. This is like...internal bleeding or - or a pulmonary embolism. She needs help.''

No shit she needs help. She's _vomiting blood._

''A hospital,'' Laurel chokes out, gripping the trashcan so tight her knuckles have gone white, ''can't help me.''

''This isn't medical,'' Dean says. ''It's mystical. It's the spell that brought her back.''

Thea's eyes widen in alarm when Laurel retches again, throwing up another worryingly substantial amount of blood. ''Spells can do this?''

''If the spell is flawed.''

''Flawed. What does that mean?''

''It's unstable.''

Thea shakes her head. ''I don't understand. It's been two weeks. Did you just find out about this?''

''I did,'' Laurel mumbles.

Dean tries to avoid looking over at Thea for as long as possible. When he does eventually look over her after a few seconds of eerie silence, her gaze is focused entirely on him. It is biting and sharp. Practically withering. ''You knew.''

He doesn't bother trying to explain. The look of betrayal on her face is like a gut punch. ''I did,'' he says, and then turns his attention back to Laurel and away from Thea's piercing look of reproach. He wipes at her bloodied lips with the damp cloth. He grabs the glass of water and helps her take a few small sips. She doesn't immediately throw it up so he considers it a win. His main concern right now is blood loss. With that volume of blood loss, the potential for her to go into shock is there. He takes the trash can from her and carefully helps her lie down on her left side, checking her pupils and her pulse, feeling her forehead, looking for any signs of shock.

Thea has crossed her arms, subtly closing herself off from him. ''How bad is this?''

''Bad,'' he answers honestly. ''We need to find a witch. Cas has been working on tracking one down who can help us. Problem is, there aren't a lot of witches out there that trust us.'' He moves to lift up Laurel's shirt to examine her scar. ''Which means there aren't a lot willing to take our call. We thought we - ''

He stops, clamping his jaw shut as soon as he sees the scar. The wound is red and angry, dark lines extending from the wound, swollen and bloated like it's getting ready to burst and open up.

He glances at Thea out of the corner of his eye, watching her turn away with a hand pressed to her mouth, unable to look at the wound.

''Laur.'' He calmly and carefully pulls Laurel's shirt back down and gives her a smile. ''I know it's hard but I need you to try to rest, okay? We're going to go get you some more damp cloths to help you cool down.'' He presses a quick kiss to her sweaty forehead, and then grabs Thea's hand and practically yanks her out of the room.

''Oh my god,'' her voice cracks. ''Oh my god, oh my god - ''

''Thea.''

''She's going to die. She's going to die here, isn't she?''

''Thea.'' He reaches out to place his hands on her shoulders, locking eyes with her. ''Listen to me. She's not going to die, but you're right. She does need help. Which is why I need you to make some phone calls while I get her dressed and ready to go, okay? Can you do that?''

She nods, although she still has one hand clutching at her throat like she's so panicked she can't breathe. ''Who... Who do you need me to call?''

''I need you to call John and tell him we're on our way to the bunker and Laurel needs IV fluids. Then I need you to get Cas on the phone and tell him to meet us there. Tell him he needs to bring everything he's got with him. Tell him...'' He pauses, biting down on his lip nervously. ''Tell him Laurel's out of time.''

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 **end part seven**

* * *

 **AN: - Ezell's Famous Chicken is a real franchise that exists primarily in the Seattle Metropolitan Area.  
** **\- Vibraniam is a fictional metal from the Marvel universe and Laurel is (and is also married to) a huge nerd.  
** **\- The Bukowski poem Dean was referencing in the May, 2016 flashback is ''For Jane.''  
** **\- ''Impediendum'' means ''paralyze'' in Latin.  
** **\- ''Habibti'' means ''my love'' in Arabic.  
** **\- Chapter title from the poem ''Apology'' by George Abraham.**


	8. Empire of Dirt

_AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Very brief vomit mention at the very beginning and a minor-ish scene of non-con._

* * *

 **How the Light Gets In**

 _Written by Becks Rylynn_

* * *

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 **Part Eight**

 _Empire of Dirt_

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 **April, 2016**

 _The night of the funeral, long after Mary has gone to bed and everyone else has gone home, Dean lies in the dark with a hole in his chest where Laurel used to be._

 _He's a widower now. It's an ugly word; widower. He's tried it out, tried to make it fit on his tongue, in his life, but he can't. This isn't his life. This is nothing he wanted. This is a fucking bad joke. It's a crippling unfairness, a role the world has forced him into, and he hates it. He hates it so much._

 _It makes him so angry he can't see straight. This isn't how things should be. He didn't ask for this. Laurel didn't ask for this. Mary certainly didn't ask for this. Why did this happen? Why her? Why them? How is he supposed to sleep, how is he supposed to do anything at all, when all he can think about is how angry he is that this horrible thing happened to their family?_

 _It makes him want to get in the car and drive to the nearest liquor store. He's already done that twice this week. Stormed out of the house and gone to the liquor store. Once, he even made it all the way up to the counter with a bottle of Jack Daniels. The only reason he didn't buy it and drink half the damn thing in the parking lot is because Thea called him, near tears, and said, ''Mary's crying for you and I don't know what to do.''_

 _Sam keeps telling him to go to a meeting. Find a sponsor. Reach out to someone Laurel knew from the program. Call his former therapist. Get some sleep. Just talk to someone. Anyone._

 _Dean does not want to talk. He doesn't want to go to a fucking AA meeting. He doesn't want to call his therapist. And he can't sleep. He doesn't like being here without her. There is no other way to put it. Nothing feels right anymore. He's uncomfortable in this bed, in this house, in this skin, in this sobriety without her here next to him._

 _Is this what his father felt? He's tried so hard not to dredge up those ghosts, not to bring his father into this, but it's a valid question, isn't it? When you really think about it, how can he not bring his father into this? Is this what his father felt in November of 1983? What Sam felt in November of 2005? This restless, jittery feeling? This broken sleeplessness? This wretched anger and complete helplessness? Is this grief?_

 _Or does he just really need a drink?_

 _He's thought about that a lot lately. Just one, he keeps thinking. He could just have one. Just to take the edge off and help him get to sleep. Except it wouldn't be just one. It would never be just one with him. He's a drunk. He's not wired that way. He's not going to drink. He won't do that to Mary. But, fuck, does he ever want to._

 _Dean shakes his left hand out in an attempt to rid himself of the tremor._

 _Addiction doesn't look like a monster when you're an addict. It just looks like home. It's not some dark shadow in the middle of the night. It's a warm and steadying presence beside you, day in and day out, that tells you,_ I will keep you safe.

 _It hides you._

 _He is so used to hiding that he has forgotten how to grieve out loud._

 _Public grieving is, for some reason, exactly what people seem to expect from him right now. He's the widower. They want him to throw himself on top of the casket, fall to his knees and curse the universe, break down in wails every five seconds. They want a performance. He hadn't realized grief was expected to be such a performative thing._

 _He rolls onto his side, back to the empty space. He just wants to be able to get some sleep. He needs to sleep. He's gotten maybe a few hours in the past week and that's not good enough. He needs to be able to function properly for his daughter. He's all she's got now._

 _He can't seem to get away from that night, is the thing. Every time he closes his eyes, there's this flash, this flicker of Laurel. It's her mouth, apple red lips pulled into a grin, teeth white against red, lips parting for a laugh. It's her eyes, soft and kind, always kind, and glimmering slightly, a spark like she knows something he doesn't. It's Laurel, alive._

 _And then, suddenly, it's not. It's Laurel, dead. Laurel in that hospital bed, eyes open and sightless, mouth open like she was going to let out one final scream. It's eerie how quickly life can drain out of the eyes._

 _He's relieved she wasn't alone. That he was with her until the very last second. Maybe there should be some comfort in that. The fact that she didn't die alone and that he's not left to regret leaving her, to feel guilty that he wasn't there. He just wishes he hadn't seen it happen. Selfish, maybe. He'll own that. But how do you leave that image behind? How do you get that out of your head? He's seen a lot of people die in his lifetime. People he's loved. This was just...different._

 _He rolls over to face the empty space on the bed. He blinks back the moisture in his eyes and rubs at his face tiredly. He doesn't think he can do this._

 _The soft creak of the bedroom door startles him out of the excruciating pain. The door opens and the dim hallway light, the one kept on for Mary, spills into the room, and for half a second, he almost thinks..._

 _He lifts his head just enough to see her standing in the doorway, bathed in the glow of the light. She steps into the room, shuts the door behind her, and scampers through the shadows over to the bed. ''Daddy,'' her voice says. ''Daddy, I need you.''_

 _He clicks on the lamp and takes in the sight of her standing there. She's holding her horse blanket tightly and her hair is mussed, sticking up and falling into her face. ''What's wrong, pumpkin?'' He lifts her up into the bed easily, reflexively checking to see if her pull up is wet. Other than the occasional accident, mostly at night, she's been doing surprisingly awesome with potty training for the past four months now. Right up until this past week. She's been having accidents during the day and she has soaked through her pull up almost every night since Laurel... Since the 6th. He hasn't made a big deal out of it. There's been major upheaval and trauma. For now, he's going to assume this is normal. He doesn't know who else he can ask._

 _Can't ask Quentin. He'd just worry himself into a relapse. If he hasn't relapsed already. Laurel's mother is a hard fucking no on that front. He kind of wishes he could ask his dad. John Winchester may not have been perfect, not even close, but he's been through this. What's considered normal in this situation? Is there even a normal? Would John even know? What happened in those early days, the ones he can't really remember? What can he expect to happen in the coming days?_

 _Mary flops down on the bed as soon as he lifts her up, burrowing under the covers and laying her head down on Laurel's pillow. She's dry tonight, so a wet diaper isn't what's woken her up. ''I needed you,'' she says again, but opts not to expand on that._

 _''You got me, kiddo,'' he says. ''What do you need?''_

 _She heaves a sigh. She turns her head into the pillow, mashing her face into the pillowcase with a groan. She yanks her blanket over her face and then almost immediately pulls it away, looking up at him. She rolls onto her back. She sticks her fingers into her mouth, rubbing the soft blanket against her cheek. She looks at the ceiling for a minute, contentedly sucking on her fingers, which is another thing that she had mostly outgrown until the past week. ''No stars,'' she finally mumbles out around her fingers._

 _''No,'' he agrees. ''Not in here. The stars are in your room.'' He brushes some of the wisps of hair out of her face and then gently takes her hand out of her mouth. She doesn't protest the way she used to. She curls her hand around two of his fingers and peers up at him through her eyelashes. ''Do you want me to come lie down with you in your room?''_

 _''No, no, no, no,'' she tugs at his hand, frowning. She looks alarmed at the prospect of going back to her bedroom. ''No, no, Daddy, here, here. I wanna sleep here.''_

 _''Okay,'' he relents. ''Okay, we'll sleep here.'' He does lie back down, but he keeps an eye on her. She keeps a hold of his hand, pulling it to her chest with both hands, clutching at it tightly. He can't help but ask, ''Did you have a bad dream?''_

 _She shakes her head. ''No. I just want to be with you. I like being with you.''_

 _He can't argue with that, but he doesn't think that's the only reason she's in here tonight. ''I like being with you too, honeybee.''_

 _Mary Beatrice has her mother's eyes, her mother's nose, and right now, she has her mother's sadness. He would recognize it anywhere. He used to worry, sometimes, that he knew her sadness better than he knew her joy. That was such a stupid thing to worry about. Now that it's over and there's nothing left but past tense, he can look back and see that his wife's sadness was a miniscule part of her. When he thinks of her now, he tries his best to think of her smiling and laughing. She had an incredible laugh and the most gorgeous smile he's ever seen. He wishes he had taken the time to appreciate those things more. He would give anything for one more laugh._

 _He looks down at Mary, lying there in her My Little Pony pajamas, still holding onto his hand._ Well, _he thinks,_ almost anything.

 _He decides it's best not to push her too hard for answers. She seems content to just lie there in the quiet, wide awake and comfortable with him. When she reluctantly lets go of his hand to play with her blanket, running her fingers over the fabric, he tries rubbing her belly, but he probably doesn't have the same soft touch Laurel did._

 _After about five minutes of silence, she speaks up. ''Daddy?''_

 _''Hmm?''_

 _Her small hands twitch and she lets go of her blanket._ I am _, she signs, and then stops. There is a lengthy pause before she somewhat clumsily signs a single word._ Lonely.

I am lonely.

 _His heart sinks into his stomach, dropping down as a sickening horror creeps up into his throat._ So am I, _he doesn't say._

 _''I want Mommy,'' she says._

 _''I know. I want her too.''_

 _She scoots closer to him, letting him wrap an arm around her and pull her closer. She keeps her blanket tucked under her arm and curls into his side. Slowly, almost like she's nervous to do it, she reaches out one of her tiny hands and lays it flat on his chest, above his heart._

 _''Not so lonely now,'' he says, just to say something. His voice sounds hoarse and unconvincing. ''Are we?''_

 _There is no answer to that question._

 _She grabs onto his shirt, pulls herself up, and drapes herself over him with her good ear pressed to his chest. Her small fist clenches and unclenches around the fabric of his shirt. She used to do this all the time. Listen for heartbeats. She hasn't done it in awhile. She grew out of it. Or maybe she just grew into the confidence that her parents would always be here whether she was listening or not. Guess she's not that confident anymore._

 _''My ear heard Mommy's name,'' she whispers, after a minute or two._

 _He looks down at her. ''When? Today?''_

 _She nods against his chest. ''Grandma said her name a lot. But there's no Mommy,'' she informs him, wistful. ''I looked. But no Mommy. She's not here.''_

 _''No,'' he says. ''No, she's not.''_

 _Mary raises her head. She props her chin up on his chest and looks at him curiously. ''Why?'_

 _''She...'' He really doesn't want to answer that question. ''She went to Heaven.'' It's not a satisfactory answer for either of them. He's not even sure it's the right thing to say. People keep shoving all these articles at him about how to help your child cope with the loss of a parent and most of them say that you shouldn't lie. That you should use words like ''death'' and ''died.'' Don't tell them that their lost parent just went to sleep because it could make them afraid of going to sleep. Don't tell them that their parent was sick because it might make them think they're going to die every time they get sick._

Listen, _all the articles say._ Comfort. Put emotions into words.

 _How the fuck is he supposed to do any of that? What does that even mean? He is listening the best he can, but he doesn't know how to comfort her and he certainly doesn't know how to put these emotions into words. Does anyone know how to put these emotions into words?_

 _The bottom line of most of these articles seems to be that children are people. They deserve the truth. They understand far more than they're given credit for. That's the problem. He doesn't want her to understand. He doesn't want her to have to go through this. How is he supposed to be okay with telling her that her mother is dead when he can't even bring himself to say the words out loud?_

 _He is a grown man who has been through more than his fair share of grief and loss. He has lost so many people that he's lost count of the ashes and he still can't say these words out loud. If he doesn't say it then maybe it's not true. If he doesn't say it then maybe she'll come home._

 _He is still waiting for her to come home._

 _Mary, seemingly sensing that this conversation is not heading in the direction she wanted it to go in, pulls away from him. He's almost startled by how cold he feels without her. She sits up, sitting cross legged on the bed, blanket pulled into her lap. ''When's she coming back?''_

 _He doesn't think she's ever looked this solemn before. He can understand why. The routine she's been thriving under has been thrown off. She wants normal back. Mom wakes her up in the mornings. Dad makes Mom avocado toast with a poached egg - under protest, grumbling about marrying a hipster millennial the entire time, trying to slip some bacon onto the plate - and says, ''Don't forget your contact lenses.'' Mom makes a pot of coffee for everyone that he throws out as soon as she leaves because he doesn't like the way she makes coffee but doesn't want to tell her that. Speech therapy once a week (cut down from twice a week) with her speech therapist and every night with Mom. Physical therapy every other Tuesday and balance exercises with Dad every weekday afternoon. Sign language practice on the weekends with both Mom and Dad. Honey and peanut butter toast or oatmeal with blueberries most mornings. Sometimes bacon and scrambled eggs that she puts both syrup and ketchup on, much to his dismay and horror. That is the life that Mary lives. She was happy in that life._

 _She lives with eyes on her parents at all times. She exists in the space between two people who love and adore her, who coddle her maybe a bit too much, and who want nothing more than to do right by her, to give her everything. That is her life. That's what she wants back._

 _Who can blame her? All he's been thinking about for the past week now is how badly he wants to go back to complaining about Laurel's damn avocado toast on weekday mornings and watching Mary try to mimic Laurel's yoga poses in the backyard on Saturday and Sunday mornings. They worked hard for that life. It was a good one. A real good one._

 _He heaves himself up, propping himself up against the headboard. He looks at Mary closely._

 _Today, they buried her mother. Put her in a box in the ground and left her there. He tried to explain to Mary what a funeral is and he's told her a few times that Mom is gone, but he knows she doesn't get it. She doesn't want to._

 _Mary did...surprisingly okay during today's chaos. She didn't like the informal wake her grandmother threw together because she doesn't do well with crowds and because she had missed her nap but before that, she was fine. He hadn't wanted to bring her to the funeral at all. She's three. He wanted to spare her. But she had handled the whole thing with a surprising amount of courage and poise. There was a moment when she saw the casket where she pointed at it and asked, very loudly, ''What's that?'' That was about it. She didn't fidget. She didn't cry. She wasn't scared. She just sat there next to him calmly, looking at the blown up picture of her mom. She did better than most of the adults around her._

 _''She's...'' He clears his throat. ''She's not coming back, Mary.'' He doesn't want to be telling her this. He doesn't want her to have to know these things, but this is the unfairness of their new life. As much as he hates it, those condescending articles are right._

 _Mary takes this news well. She laughs at him. ''Don't be silly!'' She swats at him playfully. Like the idea of her mother not coming home is so ridiculous that it shouldn't even be entertained as a real possibility._

 _''Mary,'' he sighs. ''Your mom,'' he says, as gently as possible. ''She died,'' he tells her, and all the air leaves his lungs. ''She can't come back.''_

 _She shakes her head, steadfast in her denial. ''She comes back.''_

 _''She can't come back,'' he says again. It's all he can think of to say. He has nothing else to give her._

 _Mary, for a moment, looks like she's going to fight him on that, but she doesn't. She doesn't understand the finality of death. He doesn't think she understands much about death at all, despite being surrounded by it. She knows that Uncle Tommy died when she was a baby, but despite the picture of him in her room that she'll loudly explain to anyone who walks into her room, she doesn't remember him so his loss doesn't ache. She knows that Auntie Sara died, but Auntie Sara came back. She knows that Nana Bea went to Heaven, but honestly, she was far more impacted by Laurel's grief than Nana Bea's death. Despite all the gloominess that sometimes surrounds her life, this is the first time she has really had to feel it._

 _He would like to say he can't imagine how that feels, but he can. He knows exactly how it feels. There is no gentle way to feel pain. Not even when you're a kid. You can't sugarcoat grief so it's easier to swallow. You can't make it something more palatable. There is no way to soften the blow of loss. Grief is... Grief just is._

 _Dean watches his little girl's face fall as she is forced to come to the realization that there is no way out of this. It's something painfully familiar. There are a lot of things that he can't remember about the immediate days after the fire that stole his mother from him. He remembers the night of. He remembers the heat, the frantic sound of his father's voice, the weight of his baby brother in his arms. He remembers coughing for weeks after. He remembers the silence. Always the silence._

 _Most of the other details have been washed away by time. One thing he has never been able to forget is when he asked when his mom was coming home. It was a few days after the fire, they were staying with Mike and Kate Guenther, and Dean just wanted to go home. Kate was the one he asked. His mom was the one he always went to when he was scared, she was the safe space, the one he always fell back to. Something about Kate must have reminded him of that. She hadn't known what to say to him. He can understand that now. What are you supposed to say when your husband's coworker's kid comes up to you and asks, ''When's my mom coming back?''_

 _She handled it as well as she could have, he thinks. She sat him down in the kitchen and told him that she was sorry but that his mom wasn't going to be coming home because she had passed away. She said that his mom was with the angels now, but she would be looking down on him and Sammy, keeping them safe, watching over them. She kept asking if he was okay, if he understood, but he couldn't speak, couldn't make his voice work because he was so scared without his mom. He nodded, even though he wasn't okay, and he didn't understand, and who was going to look after him and Sammy if Mom didn't come home?_

 _He didn't speak again for weeks. He didn't want to know the answers to anymore questions._

 _Mary hasn't yet arrived at that place. ''But,'' her voice is a shaky sounding squeak. ''Why?''_

 _''I...'' He struggles to come up with a good answer to that question. ''That's just - That's the way it is when someone dies. It's just what happens.''_

 _She looks, suddenly, very panicked. ''Are you gonna die?''_

 _''No.'' Even he's surprised by the conviction in his voice when he says that. He can't remember the last time he had conviction. ''No,'' he says it again, softer this time. ''No, I'm with you, Mary. I'm staying right here with you. Always. You and me.'' He offers her a poor imitation of a smile. ''We're a team, right?''_

 _She doesn't answer. She buries her face in the soft fabric of her blanket that her mother made her and ducks her head so he can't see her eyes. She looks scared. He gets that. He's scared too. Their entire world has changed._

 _He's aware that she seems to have inherited her parents' tendency to feel everything just a little too much. She's a sensitive kid. She takes everything to heart. Up until now, that's only been a minor issue. She's an amazing little girl. She is happy more than she is sad, she laughs more than she cries, and she loves more than she hates. She's too young to understand the shitstorm that is, occasionally, their lives. She is not too young to understand this. This is Laurel. This is her mom. Mary worshipped the ground Laurel walked on. She was awed by everything her mom did. Now she just has an empty spot where her mother used to be and a hollowed out shell for a dad. She has been left behind. They have both been left behind._

 _He swallows painfully. ''Mary.''_

 _''But Mommy wakes me up,'' she says, raising her head to show him her wide, scared eyes._

 _''I know.'' He blinks, stubbornly refusing to break down in front of her. ''Do you think it would be okay if I wake you up from now on?''_

 _She looks like she's trying her hardest not to cry. ''Okay,'' she says, voice small. ''Is - '' She stops. She looks around the room like she's searching for any leftover trace of her mother. ''Is Heaven…nice?''_

 _''...Yes.''_

 _''Is she happy?''_

 _''I hope so.''_

 _''I was happy,'' she whispers. ''When she's not - When she's not in Heaven.''_

 _His throat constricts and he can feel that familiar tightness in his chest and that aching pressure behind his eyes. There are so many things people don't tell you about loss. Just like there are so many things people don't tell you about parenting. Dean knows how to lose parents, how to lose friends, even how to lose his brother, but he doesn't know how to lose his wife. How to do any of this without her. Half of him is just gone now._

 _He knows how to be Mary's dad. He has changed diapers, potty trained her, cleaned up all the bodily fluids, all the spilled milk and spilled legos, played with her, taught her, comforted her. He knows how to help her through a vertigo attack, through colds and ear infections and strep throat. He knows sign language, speech therapy, physical therapy, and everything else. He has answered every question she has ever had. But he doesn't know how to do this. He can't help her, can't comfort her, can't answer her questions._

 _''I don't like this,'' Mary declares, wobbly. She shakes her head. ''I need Mommy.'' She shakes her head again, more adamantly this time, and then she starts crying. ''I don't like this.''_

 _Nothing he says will make this better so he just lifts her up into his lap and gives her a hug. She lets go of her blanket and winds her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shirt. ''I don't like this either,'' he admits, barely able to choke it out around the rocks in his throat. He can feel her tears leaking through his t-shirt and he can feel her tiny body shuddering with sobs._

 _This might be one of the worst moments of his entire life. And he has had a screwed up life. It's just that he feels like he's choking on this loss. It's horrifying to him that Mary is feeling the same kind of hurt. That she has to suffer like this at three years old. He never ever wanted this for her. She was supposed to have better. She was supposed to have a happy childhood._

 _''I want Mommy,'' Mary cries out. ''I want her to come back.''_

 _''I know.'' He rubs her back. ''So do I.''_

 _She keeps crying, sobbing bitterly into his shirt, and he holds her close, periodically rubbing her back, trying to come up with something to say. She sniffles and when she's calmed down enough to speak, she mumbles into his neck, ''Can we go with her?''_

 _''No,'' he tries to say it as evenly as possible. ''We have to stay here.''_

 _''Why?''_

 _''We...'' He takes in a few breaths. ''We're not finished.''_

 _''Mommy's finished?''_

 _He struggles to swallow down the lump in his throat, sliding his eyes heavenwards briefly. ''I... I guess so.''_

 _Mary settles down for a few minutes, snuggling into his chest. She still doesn't seem all that interested in sleeping but she quiets down, her nervous twitchy fingers playing with the neckline of his shirt. She rubs at her eyes and when she stuffs her fingers into her mouth again, he doesn't stop her. For now, it's something that comforts her. He's not going to take that away from her. He sits there with her for awhile in the quiet darkness, patiently waiting for her to wind down._

 _Not that it really matters. He doesn't think he's going to be getting any sleep tonight and they don't have any plans for tomorrow so they could probably just lie around in bed all day and rest. Except that's not what he wants for her. That's too depressing. He can't rest anyway. There is no rest in this grief. He heard Donna talking to Jody about asking him if they could take Mary to the zoo tomorrow. Maybe that's what he'll do. They'll sleep in tomorrow and go to the zoo with Jody and Donna in the afternoon. Try to keep up with some kind of illusion of normalcy. He really doesn't want to go to the zoo tomorrow, but…_

 _Laurel would have taken her to the zoo._

 _He looks over at Laurel's vanity. He hasn't touched it. Her robe is still draped over the back of the chair where she left it. Her makeup is still strewn about on top of the table from when she put it on that morning. There are photographs tucked into the mirror. Her rings are scattered on the tabletop. There is a necklace with a broken clasp pushed off to the side. On the bedside table, there is a half-empty glass of water and a pair of glasses. There are contact lenses in the bathroom, lotions and oils and soaps, shampoo and conditioner still taking up space. He bought her a birthday gift. It's sitting at the bottom of the drawer, all wrapped up, ready to be opened. He doesn't know what to do with it now. This whole house is untouched. Still waiting for her. Just like the people in it. If Laurel walked in right now, she could pick up right where she left off and it would be like nothing happened._

 _But she won't._

 _This thing, this horrible thing - It happened. There is no going back. Somehow, they have to find a way to live in this house without her. Somehow, they have to go on._

 _The crossroads was a giant waste of time, Crowley wouldn't help, Death refused to bargain with him, and no angels will answer his prayers. No one will help him. No one will help her. All of the usual Winchester tricks for cheating death have stopped working. His luck has abandoned him. Abandoned her._

 _He closes his eyes, breathing slowly. This is not what he signed up for all those years ago when she begged him to stay with her while his shoulder healed and he agreed, even though he knew it was going to end badly. This is what he was afraid of._

 _He's been wondering lately what would have happened if he had just left that day in the summer of 2010 when she said ''take what you need and I'll give you what I can.'' If he had left her standing there in that parking garage and limped back to a life full of cheap beer, grief, and driving aimlessly around the country, hopping from ghost towns to all night diners to cemeteries in the dead of night, searching for something he would never find. He wonders what would have become of them._

 _Where would he be now? Where would she be? Would she still be here? Would she have found someone else? Or would she have died alone?_

 _That's not what happened. Not in this lifetime._

 _In this life, he was tired, she was warm, and she was offering him something he couldn't bring himself to pass up. So he went home with her, he fell in love, and that was that. He stayed. For the rest of her life, he stayed with her, right by her side. He's trying to work out, these days, if that was the best decision he ever made, or the worst._

 _In his arms, Mary shifts a little. She wipes her slobbery fingers on his shirt and clenches the fabric in her tiny fist for a moment before pulling back. ''We can lay down now,'' she decides, crawling off his lap. She lies back down on the bed, rolling onto her side. She pats his pillow. ''Lay down, Daddy. Night night time.''_

 _He lies down next to her, carefully keeping an eye on her. She appears to have bounced back quickly but he still signs a careful,_ Are you okay?

 _She nods, wriggling closer to him and throwing her blanket over him. She smiles at him and then puts her fingers back in her mouth yet again. He smiles back. It's weak and wobbly, but it's a smile._

 _If he could go back to that day in the parking garage or that night on the fire escape or that weekend in Seattle or even that morning he woke up and heard her singing that Buddy Holly song in the kitchen, the very moment he knew, what would he do? If he could go back to the first time he ever saw her, the day she poured him a coffee or that night when she hit him with her purse because she thought he was a mugger, what would he change? Would he go back and warn himself of the unhappy ending? Say ''heads up, man, Laurel dies at the end, better off skipping this story?'' Or would he make the same choices and take the pain?_

 _The answer is simple, really._

 _He would do it all over again. Laurel gave him Mary. Everything he has now, he has because of her. She gave him all of it. She gave him the world. He should have thanked her for that. He should have thanked her for everything._

 _''Daddy?'' Mary takes her fingers out of her mouth and looks over at him. ''Why?'_

 _''Why what?''_

 _''Why's Mommy finished?''_

 _He is quiet for a long time, floored by the question. Now that he can't answer. I mean, he can but she's probably not going to understand ''because our life is a shit sandwich.'' ''I don't know,'' is all he can manage to mumble out._

 _She frowns at that. ''You know,'' she says, as if the alternative is unacceptable. How could there ever be something Daddy doesn't know? ''Daddy, you know,'' she insists. ''You gotta.''_

 _''I don't,'' he insists. ''I'm sorry, I...'' The lump in his throat seems to be attempting to claw it's way out. ''I want to have all the answers for you. You deserve to have that, but I don't - I don't know why this happened. I don't know how we...'' He shifts himself back into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard. ''I don't know what to do now.'' He doesn't know if he's talking to Mary or to Laurel. ''I'm sorry, Mary. I'm so sorry. We wanted better for you. We didn't want this. We didn't want any of this.'' He tries as hard as he can to hide the shakiness, to quell the emotion, but he fails miserably. Much to his horror, he is damn near a blubbering mess by the time he's finished, and she's looking at him in concern._

 _She spends less than ten seconds staring up at her father melting down in front of her with this frightened look on her face, and then it passes. The apprehension fades away, replaced by something else, something that stirs up memories of her mother, and then she's sitting up and climbing back into his lap. ''It's okay, Daddy,'' she tells him. ''It's okay.'' She wipes at the tears on his cheeks with her tiny hands. ''Don't be sad.'' She leans in close to him, placing both hands on his face and resting her forehead against his. ''Don't be sad,'' she repeats. ''I love you.'' She pulls away, but only to hug him, laying her head on his shoulder and rubbing his back the same way he usually rubs hers. ''Don't worry. I won't leave.''_

 _He chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. He clutches her tighter, practically holding on for dear life. ''I'm glad you're here,'' he gets out. ''I'm so glad you're here.''_

 _It's the same thing he told her the night she was born when Laurel put her in his arms for the first time. Was that really three years ago? It feels like it was just yesterday. He remembers every second of that night. All that excitement and fear and adrenaline. All that love. How hard Laurel fought to bring their daughter into this world and how intensely she loved her from the very first second. How exhausted and terrified but complete she looked when she finally had her baby in her arms. He remembers that._

 _Mary won't. Mary won't remember any of the things Laurel did for her. She will remember her mother the same way he remembers his; in past tense. She'll only know her through the stories he tells her, the pictures in the frames, the blurred memories in the back of her head that she'll try so desperately to remember. That's all she'll have from now on. That's not enough. It wasn't enough for him._

 _''Mary.'' He fights to regain some semblance of control and composure. Gently, he pulls her away from her and meets her eyes. ''I love you,'' he says. ''Do you know that?''_

 _She nods enthusiastically. ''You're Daddy.''_

 _''I know I don't...say it much.''_

 _She frowns and tilts her head to the side, confused. ''You say it lots.''_

 _''Yeah?'' He manages an unconvincing laugh. ''You think so?''_

 _She nods again, reaching out to pat his hand soothingly. ''You love me,'' she says. ''I love you. We love Mommy. And Auntie Thea and Uncle Sammy and Uncle Cas and Auntie Sara and Grandpa. We love each other,'' she nods, sounding firm on this. ''We're family.''_

 _''You're right,'' he says. ''We are. I just wanted to make sure you know how much I love you. Those words aren't always easy for me to say.''_

 _That's an understatement. Love is something easy to feel. It just pours in. The words have been hard to get out for a long time. He used to be able to say it back when he was a kid and he knows his mom said it a lot, but his father... John wasn't interested in telling his boys he loved them. He kept them alive. Guess he thought that was enough. Some hang ups you learn._

 _He thinks he can count on one hand all the times he told Laurel that he loved her. He tries to say it to Mary, to make an effort, but with Laurel it was mostly an unspoken thing. She said it all the time, so easily and freely, but he couldn't. She never seemed to have an issue with it. She never even brought it up. Even when they were going to counseling. She understood. Still, he can't help but think that he should have said it more. She knew, he's sure of that, but he should have said it more._

 _''You could sign it,'' Mary suggests. ''Like this.'' She demonstrates how to sign 'I love you' and then looks at him expectantly. He acquiesces obediently, signing the words back to her, much to her delight. ''Yay!'' She cheers, throwing her hands up. ''Good job, Daddy!'' She gives him another big hug, wrapping her arms around him and he can't help but laugh. ''Now you don't say it,'' she says, pulling away but keeping her arms wound around his neck. ''You just sign it.''_

 _''Of course,'' he says. ''Why didn't I think of that? Pumpkin, you're a genius.''_

 _She grins and giggles quietly, leaning in close to him to bury her face in the hollow of his throat. She draws away after a few minutes to meet his eyes. ''Are you still sad?''_

 _He opens his mouth to say no and assure her that he could never be sad with her, but then he stops. ''Yes,'' he answers honestly. ''I'm still sad. Are you still sad?''_

 _She thinks about it for a second and then nods her head. ''I miss Mommy.''_

 _''I do too,'' he nods. ''I think we're going to have to be sad for a little bit,'' he tells her. ''And that's okay. It's okay to be sad and it's okay to miss her. But we'll be happy again, Mary. I promise. That's what your mom would've wanted for us.'' He tries to make it sound as genuine as possible. He's going to do everything in his power to make sure that their daughter has a good life, that she grows up happy and healthy, that she thrives, even with the empty space next to her. But his own life..._

 _Just the idea of one day being happy in a life without her makes his skin crawl with guilt. Maybe it just takes time but right now the very concept of happiness feels like a betrayal._

 _When Mary lays her head on his shoulder once again, he scoots back so he can lean against the headboard and lets her drape herself over his chest. ''You know,'' he starts, after a second. ''Your mom... She loved you too. She loved you so much. She fought to get back to you. I need you to know that. She loved you more than anyone. She would have done anything to be able to stay here with us.''_

 _She takes her fingers out of her mouth and looks up at him seriously. ''But she didn't.''_

 _''No'' he agrees quietly. ''She...'' He pauses, letting out a breath. ''She got really hurt,'' he explains. ''The doctors at the hospital tried to help her but her body couldn't get better.''_

 _She blinks a couple of times and then drops her head back down onto his chest. ''Oh.''_

 _''Are you okay?''_

 _She doesn't answer, wiping her nose on his shirt. She reaches for her blanket with her free hand and he grabs it for her, draping it over her. She tugs it up to her face, absently rubbing the soft fabric against her cheek._

 _''Mary,'' he says softly. ''I don't want you to worry about that happening to me, okay? Or you. It won't. I promise I won't leave you.'' He wants to make that as clear as he can. He doesn't want her to be scared of losing him the way she lost her mom. He knows she has to be thinking about that. She's been through something traumatic. Especially for someone her age. This loss is bigger than her. He doesn't expect her to just get over it. This is going to be something she carries with her for the rest of her life. It's not something he can carry for her, and he knows that. He just wants to be able to lighten the load. Make sure she knows that he's here and he always will be. Everything his own father didn't do for him._

 _She's quiet for a minute and then says, simply, ''Okay.'' Then, in a whisper, ''Can I have some water?''_

 _''You want a glass of water?''_

 _She nods._

 _''I can do that,'' he says, leaping at the chance to be able to do something useful._

 _She climbs off him so he can get up, crawling back to Laurel's side of the bed._

 _''I'll be right back,'' he promises._

 _She starts to nod but almost immediately freezes. There's this bright flicker of fear in her eyes and then she starts shaking her head. ''No, no, no, Daddy.'' She grabs at his hand, pulling herself up to her feet on the bed. ''I... I come with you.'' She sounds panicked, like she doesn't want to ever let him out of her sight again. ''Okay? Okay?''_

 _''Okay,'' he soothes, scooping her up. ''Let's go get some water.'' She clings to him so tightly it's like she's afraid he's going to drop her. It's not entirely unusual. Mary is a stage five clinger. She's been a Velcro baby since the day she was born. He may not have to sit on the floor beside her crib with his hand through the bars anymore but she still can't fall asleep without someone touching her. He used to not be able to shower or even go to the bathroom alone. There are still days where she literally follows him from room to room. That's nothing new. It's the fear on her face that's different. He knows he can't make that go away and that, unfortunately, fear is a normal part of grief but it's such a shitty feeling to see that look on his baby girl's face and not be able to fix it._

 _Mary is quiet as he makes his way down the hall to the kitchen to get her water. She dictates which sippy cup she wants (the Mulan one and NOT the Beauty & the Beast one) but other than that, she doesn't say much, resting her head on his shoulder, still sucking away on her fingers. _

_In the light of the kitchen, he can see that she looks tired. It's yet another way she's like her mom. They both tend to get pale and clammy when they're tired. Not that Mary's going to admit she's tired. She seems adamant that she's not. She won't let him put her down. Not even to fill up her sippy cup. He's gotten good at doing things one handed over the past three years so it's not that much of a hindrance but she's just clinging to him so tightly._

 _He can't blame her for being exhausted. Today was miserable. And long. Really long. It took a lot out of all of them. He's worried that tonight maybe wasn't the best time to have that conversation. All he did was answer her questions but he doesn't want to fuck this up. He's terrified of messing this up. Filling her full of all this scary shit that she doesn't know how to handle. She's just...so little. She never even had a chance to have a happy, griefless childhood._

 _Dean hands her the sippy cup full of water and she reluctantly unwinds an arm from around his neck to take it from him. ''Thank you,'' she whispers, taking a small sip._

 _He smiles softly, smoothing her messy hair back. ''You need anything else?''_

 _She shrugs and then takes another sip before deciding, ''I don't want Sharkie to be lonely.''_

 _''Good idea,'' he says seriously. ''Let's go get Sharkie.''_

 _He doesn't bother trying to get her to sleep in her own bed. He puts her down on the ground in her room, much to her annoyance, and helps her gather up whatever she wants - a few stuffed animals, her comforter, a few books. According to the sanctimonious articles, letting her camp out in his room is enabling a bad habit and he should stick to their normal routine. He really doesn't give a shit right now. Fuck those articles. His kid just lost her mother. She can bed share until she's thirty five for all he cares. Anything he can do to help her, he will do it._

 _Sleep does not come easily for Mary tonight. It's painful to watch her struggle to settle because it's so clear that she is beyond tired, but she's just not allowing herself to fall asleep. He tries everything he can to help her. Lots of cuddles, he reads the books she brings in twice, takes her to the bathroom no less than four times (even though she only goes twice), they sing the alphabet song, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Wheels On the Bus, he rubs her back, he even tries rubbing her belly the way Laurel usually does, but Mary resists sleep until the last second. She finally passes out at around four in the morning, flopped over on her stomach with him rubbing her back and Sharkie tucked protectively in the crook of her arm._

 _Dean, however, does not get any sleep. He keeps rubbing her back for a good ten minutes even after she's asleep before drawing his hand back. She stirs and makes the tiniest whimpering noise in her sleep before opening her eyes and rasping out, ''Daddy?''_

 _''I'm right here.'' He instinctively takes a hold of her hand, rubbing circles on the back of it with his thumb. ''I'm right here, Mary. You're okay.''_

 _She drops back into slumber quite quickly and he lets out a breath. And that is why he hasn't gotten up. He keeps thinking that he might as well give up on sleep and go have a shower and make some coffee, maybe make some breakfast for the girls so they'll have something to eat when they wake up, but he knows he's not going to be able to leave the room. He might be able to get away with it once she's in a deeper sleep, but not now. He stays in bed with her for over two hours, watching her sleep and listening to her breathing. It's not the worst. He thinks the night would have been unbearable without her here. The pain is still there, right on top of his chest, but the burden of grief is somehow less when she's here._

 _Finally, at about six in the morning, he decides to chance it and get out of bed. He moves as slowly as he can, pausing each time he feels like he jostles the bed too much. Mary, thankfully, doesn't stir. He tip toes out of the bedroom and, as quietly as he can, makes his way to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee._

 _He manages to get the coffee brewing just fine. It's when he's standing in front of the open fridge, staring at all the leftover casseroles and deli trays from the wake and trying to decide if he's hungry, that he hears it. The kitchen door swings open. He tenses up and closes his eyes, holding his breath._

 _Oh, crap._

 _He cringes and then turns his head to the doorway._

 _There's his little insomniac. Mary is standing there, blanket trailing behind her, with this look of sheer betrayal on her face._

 _He sighs and closes the fridge. ''Mary - ''_

 _''You left,'' she accuses. ''You said you wouldn't leave.''_

 _''I...'' He blinks. ''Honey, I just went to make some coffee.''_

 _She ignores that flimsy excuse, stomping farther into the kitchen with a scowl. She crawls into the breakfast nook, tugging her blanket into her lap. She looks out of it, rubbing at her eyes groggily and sniffling._

 _Dean glances longingly at the coffee, and then takes a seat across from her. ''Mary,'' he says, possibly too quiet for her to hear. ''Mary Bea.'' He reaches across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear._

 _She blinks, rubs at her nose, and then crumples and starts weeping. At first, she tries to hide it by rubbing at her eyes but she's too tired. She lays her head down on the table and pulls her blanket over her head, letting out these miserable, gulping sobs._

 _He doesn't know if she's crying because she's upset he left her alone in the bedroom or just because she's that overtired. He's going to guess, since she's only had two hours of sleep, it's the latter. Either way, the sound of her heartbroken sobs is like a knife to the heart. With any other kid, his first idea would be to get them in the car and let them sleep it off on a long drive. That shit ain't gonna fly with Mary Bea. She'll just puke and scream her head off. Some fresh air, though, might not be the worst idea._

 _''All right.'' He gets to his feet and scoops both her and her blanket into his arms. ''Come on, honeybee. Let's go watch the sunrise.'' The weather in Star City in early April isn't freezing but it's not warm either so he gets her bundled up in a sweater and lets her put a hat on. She whines and protests when he makes her put on socks but other than that, she doesn't ask any questions. She just keeps a tight grip on both him and the precious horse blanket that her mother lovingly and painstakingly made for her._

 _He makes sure to grab a cup of coffee for himself and some fresh water for her and then they step out onto the back porch. Outside, the sky is just beginning to lighten. It's chilly but calm and quiet, aside from the birds that are already chirping away in the apple tree. Mary is so tired that she pretty much settles instantly once he's got her up in his lap with her blanket draped over her. He leans in close to murmur in her good ear, ''You okay?''_

 _She nods, takes the hat that she insisted on wearing off her head, and snuggles into his chest. He looks down at her, watching her gaze sleepily follow the birds as they fly back and forth between the apple tree in their backyard and the lemon tree in the Denton's backyard. It doesn't take long for her to give in to sleep. Less than twenty minutes after stepping foot outside, she's fast asleep, curled into his chest, wrapped in one of her mom's sweaters that still smells like her, leaving Dean to his coffee and the sunrise._

 _This is not the first time he and Mary have watched the sunrise together. She is not generally an early riser but she is notoriously hard to get to sleep. Fresh air usually manages to do the trick. Normally, though, this was Laurel's thing. He's taken the morning shift before, sat in this very spot with a restless toddler, but most of the time, this was Laurel's thing. He did the nights. She was the morning person. Even after she became the Black Canary and started having more and more late nights, she was still a morning person. He'll have to take over now. He'll have to do it all._

 _He looks at the black birds in the apple tree, watching them land on the branches and then fly back up into the sky. He looks up at the sky, the faint streaks of pinkish orange and the calm glow settling over the neighborhood. It's not that beautiful. Sunrises lose their cool factor when you've lost someone. They just become yet another reminder that you're about to be forced to go through another miserable day without your loved one. He takes a sip of his coffee. At least the coffee in this house will always be strong enough now. He closes his eyes briefly, and then looks down at his daughter._

 _That night in the hospital, Laurel kept telling him to go home and get some rest. ''I'll be fine,'' she told him. ''I'm just going to sleep. You should try to get some sleep too. There's nothing you can do here.''_

 _He flat out refused. Kept telling her there was no way in hell he was leaving her alone. Nothing she said to him could make him move. One of the last things he said to her was a promise. ''I'm not going anywhere,'' he said, ''until we can leave this place together.''_

 _It was not a promise he could keep. It was out of his hands. But he can keep the promise he made Mary and he can keep the promise he made Laurel while he was sitting next to her in the silence she left behind, holding her hand._

 _He will not leave their girl alone here._

 _That's what Laurel would have wanted. It's the one thing he knows for sure. She would have wanted him to stay for Mary. She would have wanted them to be together. He doesn't want to disappoint her. He wants to do what she would have done. Make the choices she would have made. The ones his father should have made, but didn't. He wants to do what's best for Mary. He wants to be able to at least give her pieces of her mom in the decisions he makes. He doesn't want to be his father. All he can do is hope that he's not letting Mary or Laurel down with the choices he makes from here on out._

 _He and Laurel couldn't walk out of that hospital together, but he and Mary can walk this life together. In this brand new life of overwhelming absence and sorrow, that will have to be enough._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

The drive to the bunker is the second longest drive of his life.

They live too far away from downtown. It's such a ridiculously mundane thing to think about given the situation but it's easier to drum up frustration for the length of the drive and the red lights he keeps running than it is to acknowledge that his wife is dying.

Again.

He is trying his best to stay calm for Laurel because he knows she's terrified and in a lot of pain but he can't do this again. It's selfish to be thinking that when she's the one this is happening to but he _can't_. He watched her die once. He refuses to do it again.

Laurel vomits twice more on the way there, still mostly blood, and then she starts to drift. He can tell she's getting foggy because he keeps trying to keep her talking, saying her name, asking her questions, and her answers are quickly becoming incoherent. For the first ten minutes or so, she is completely aware of what's happening. She writhes in pain, desperately trying to find a comfortable position to sit in, curled up in a ball, leaning forward to white knuckle the dashboard, and finally just tiredly slumped against the door, clutching the blanket he draped around her shoulders. She cries out every time the car goes over a bump, holding her side like she's trying to keep her insides from falling out.

However, her body doesn't have an unlimited amount of strength, especially not under this much stress. Not to mention the dehydration and the blood loss. Shock sets in rapidly and she gets quieter and quieter, cries and moans dying down to soft whimpers until she can no longer verbalize how she's feeling.

By the time the elevator doors open to the bunker, she is limp and non-responsive in his arms and all he keeps thinking is what if the drive cost her too much time?

Sara, standing with John and Felicity over by the bank of computers, is the first one to see them when the doors open and he watches the expression on her face go from confused and mildly concerned to horrified as soon as she lays eyes on her sister.

''Oh my god!'' Felicity is the one who voices their seemingly collective terror as Dean carefully places Laurel on the stretcher they've got set up. ''Oh god, Laurel.'' Instantly, without a second of hesitation, she grabs onto Laurel's hand, holding onto her friend tightly with both hands. She looks at Dean with wide eyes. ''I thought you were just coming in for IV fluids.''

''Fluids would be good,'' Dean says, surprised by how scarily calm his voice sounds. ''Oxygen would be better.'' He looks down at Laurel, ghost white and sweating profusely. He reaches out to touch her, cupping her face briefly before bringing his fingers to her neck to check her pulse. It's there, but it's weak and thready. He is dimly aware of Sara asking why she's covered in blood and what's happening but he's too focused on Laurel to answer.

When he touches her face, she makes this barely audible moaning noise and even though it looks like it takes every ounce of her energy, she manages to open her eyes. Sort of. Her eyes are barely open and she looks so out of it that he's not sure if she's really seeing him but he still plasters on his best comforting smile for her because that's his job. He tunes out the fifteen different questions coming at him from all different directions and leans down to brush hair out of her face. ''Hey there, pretty bird.'' He takes her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. ''I'm right here with you. Are you still with me?''

She doesn't answer. With how shallow and wheezy her breathing is, he's not sure she can. He glances up, catching sight of John hauling over an oxygen kit. ''Laur.'' He looks back down at her, instantly tightening his grip on her hand when he sees her head loll to the size and the glazed over look in her eyes. ''Hey, hey, hey, baby, I need you to stay with me. I know you're tired but I need you here. John's going to put an oxygen mask on your face,'' he says gently. ''We need to get you breathing better, okay? You know the drill. We've been here before. Don't be scared.''

She attempts a tiny nod just as John places the mask over her face. Despite the explanation and the nod of what seemed like consent, she still fusses and there's a spark of fear in her eyes when the mask goes over her nose and mouth. Her body jerks and Dean instinctively presses the hand that isn't holding hers to her shoulder to gently but firmly hold her down. ''I know,'' he soothes. ''I know it's scary. You're okay. I'm right here. Sara's right here.'' There's a bone deep kind of ache that comes along with seeing the fear in her eyes and hearing her frightened little sob from behind the mask, but at least she's still _here_ enough to feel the fear.

''Deep breaths, Laurel,'' John coaches softly. ''Through your nose not your mouth.''

''You've got this,'' Sara's voice pipes up. She leans in close to her sister, nearly crowding Dean out of the way. ''You've done this before,'' she whispers, stroking Laurel's hair. ''You're a pro at oxygen masks.''

Laurel struggles with the mask for a minute or two but eventually does get in a few breaths and then a few more. Sara seems to have snapped out of whatever shock she was in because she starts murmuring encouragements, telling Laurel what a great job she's doing and coaching her through breathing.

Dean keeps his hand in Laurel's and stays rooted to his spot, right next to her, where she can see him. He doesn't want to leave her. He wants to stay where she can see him because that's what he does. When she was in the hospital with a ruptured appendix, she kept her eyes closed while she was in the emergency room and they were running tests and loading her up with pain meds. He made a point to be there every time she opened her eyes because he didn't want her to feel scared. When she was in labor, she squeezed her eyes shut tight during every contraction and every time she pushed, and every single time she opened her eyes, he was right there. Even in the hospital that night in April, he made sure that he was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes.

He doesn't want to leave her when her eyes are closed. He wants to make sure he'll be there when she opens them.

He looks up at John and swallows down a sigh before leaning down to whisper in Laurel's ear. ''I need to talk with John for a minute. I promise I'm not leaving you. I'll be right over there. Sara's here with you. She's not going anywhere.''

She makes a barely audible moan-like nose but nods. He gives her hand a squeeze before touching his hand to Sara's shoulder briefly and then stepping away over to where John and Felicity are waiting to interrogate him.

He doesn't give them a chance. ''Did you send Oliver to get Mattie Moretti?''

Felicity gapes at him incredulously. ''Um... Care to share with the class why Laurel is covered in blood and looks like she's - '' She stops, abruptly, clamping her mouth shut. She can't say the words. ''What's happening? Is she going to be okay?''

''You need to tell us what's going on,'' John orders. ''I need to know if I'm going to help her.''

Dean repeats the question. ''Did you send Oliver to get - ''

''Yes,'' Felicity interjects. She glances between them, nervous. ''He's on his way to the safe house now. What does the Moretti kid have to do with - ''

''Laurel's dehydrated,'' Dean cuts in. ''She's lost a lot of blood, she's in a lot of pain, and she has a fever. I need you to get some fluids in her and get the fever down.''

''Dean.'' John's voice is tense. ''What is this? What's going on?''

''It's the spell.'' He's still surprised by how calm his voice is. He might be in a bit of shock himself.

John and Felicity look at each other. The looks on their faces tell him that they are currently trying to figure out if he has lost his mind, if he's telling the truth, or if they've possibly got a case of Munchausen by Proxy on their hands. ''It's...'' John sighs and rubs at his temple but ultimately decides to believe him. ''All right. What does that mean? How can we help?''

''Dean!''

He spins around at the sound of Sara's panicked shout and his heart plummets. There is a split second where he doesn't quite understand what he's seeing and then he realizes quite swiftly - oh, shit, Laurel's seizing. He takes off running, reaching her side seconds before John. To her credit, Sara has not frozen up the way she did that first day. She's already ripped the oxygen mask off her sister's face to keep her from injuring herself.

''Get her on her side,'' Dean advises, maneuvering his wife's tense, twitching body onto her side with help from John. ''Keep your hands away from her mouth.''

With a seizure, there's not much he can do for her but wait it out and try to let her know that he's here with her. He can't even hold her hand. The sound of it is the worst part. People don't tell you that. Watching her body jerk and twitch uncontrollably, muscles stiffened up and rigid is a wrenching experience, but the gurgling sound is worse. It's all an instant flashback to April 6th. For a long time, this was the last image he had of her alive. This is where she left him. He doesn't want it to be the last image of her he has again.

The seizure lasts one minute and forty-six seconds. He knows that because John times it. Could be worse. The moment it's over, the very second her body goes boneless, Dean all but lurches forward to grab her hand. They wouldn't let him do this in April. They wouldn't let him get to her. ''Laurel,'' he tries. ''Honey, I'm right here. You're okay.'' The only sign she gives him that she's still with him is a weak squeeze. ''I know that was miserable,'' he murmurs. ''But you made it through. You did so good.''

If she was out of it before, she's completely lost in a fog now.

''It's the fever,'' Sara says. ''It has to be. She is _burning_ up.'' She looks up, eyes landing on Felicity. ''Felicity, we need damp washcloths. Not too hot and not too cold.''

''Does anyone have any ibuprofen?'' John asks. ''Felicity?'' No answer. '' _Felicity_.''

She jumps, tearing her distressed gaze away from Laurel. ''Oh, um, yes. I - I have Motrin.''

''Get it,'' he orders shortly. ''And get the Tylenol from the bathroom too,'' he adds before turning his focused gaze back to Dean. ''How dehydrated is she? When's the last time she had any water?''

''She's thrown up everything in her system,'' Dean says with a shake of his head. ''She's got nothing left.''

''Then she needs fluids,'' John says. ''When did she last throw up? I think we have some Zofran. Might make her more comfortable.''

''Whoa, wait,'' Sara looks back and forth between John and Dean. ''Is it the best idea to be pumping an addict in recovery full of drugs?''

''Zofran is fine,'' says Dean. ''Her doctor prescribed it to her after - '' He stops, biting down on his tongue. After she was released from the hospital in February of 2014. It was to help with the prolonged nausea Laurel was dealing with from detoxing. That's not information any of these people have been privy to. He looks down at Laurel. There's blood bubbling on her lips again. ''Zofran is fine,'' he says again. ''It should help.'' Once John and Sara have both reluctantly moved away to gather up supplies, Dean gently - and as quickly as possible - checks to make sure that she didn't bite through her tongue or hurt herself in any way during the seizure before wiping the blood away with the edge of the blanket.

Laurel looks bad. He can tell by the way she keeps weakly squeezing his hand that she's still awake and at least somewhat aware of what's going on, but she doesn't look good. She must be completely wiped out. Her body has been put through hell. Not just tonight but every day since she got back. Tonight is the worst of it and he can't imagine the level of pain she must be feeling, but he knows how sick she's been feeling these past couple of weeks. She just kept shrugging it off. Slogged through normal life even though her body has literally been breaking down.

She's been in pain this whole time and she's still been chasing after Mary, comforting everyone else, laughing at his dumb jokes. She took down four men yesterday afternoon. He can't fathom the amount of strength that takes. But she's always been the strong one in this relationship. He could never compare.

He places the oxygen mask back over her mouth and nose, bending down to kiss her sweaty forehead. ''I know it hurts, but you're doing amazing right now,'' he encourages. ''I just need you to keep being strong. You can do that, right, Canary?''

She cracks her eyes open to look at him. He swears, for a brief second, she actually manages to smirk at him. She relaxes, closing her eyes again and mumbling something from behind the mask that sounds suspiciously like, ''Kiss ass.''

He laughs, bringing her hand up so he can kiss the back of it. ''Always.'' He listens to her breaths behind the oxygen mask, wheezing and desperate but still strong enough to be comforting. ''Try to get some rest,'' he advises.

He waits until Felicity has rushed back with a few damp towels before he ducks away to catch John alone. ''Do you have anything down here for sedation?''

There is a lengthy pause before John says, ''Nothing she can have.''

''Okay, well, what do you have?'' Dean asks. ''She's exhausted,'' he gestures over to her. ''Her body's too worn out to go through another seizure. She needs to get some sleep.'' He doesn't love the option he's proposing. He would rather not dose his recovering addict wife.

''All we have here is midazolam. It's a - ''

''Benzo. I know. Can you safely administer it?''

''I'm not a doctor.''

''But you have it.''

John pinches his lips together. ''Look, I can't give Laurel a benzodiazepine,'' he says. ''Not without her consent.''

''Fair enough,'' Dean says, and then spins on his heel and goes back to his wife. He's harsher than he needs to be when he tells Felicity he's taking over and shoos her away, but he figures he can apologize later. She doesn't like him anyway. It's not like he's ruining any illusions she had about him being a good guy.

Laurel looks... Not better, but not worse. The oxygen seems to be helping at least a little. She still looks like she's in pain, lying on her side and grimacing, but she's breathing easier. He drags over a chair and takes a seat next to her, picking up the damp washcloths Felicity left behind. Laurel forces open her eyes to look at him when he drapes one of them over her neck and he gives her the best smile he can muster. ''Hi, gorgeous.''

Even from behind the oxygen mask, she lets out a quiet snort.

''Yeah, yeah,'' he smirks, moving another damp cloth to her forehead. ''I know. I'm a kiss ass.'' He scoots the chair closer and lifts up her shirt to check on her scar. So far there's been no change. Still alarmingly red and swollen, it's possible she's bleeding internally, and it must hurt like a bitch, but it hasn't burst open yet. He needs to find some way to help her before it does. He lowers her shirt and reaches out to lay a hand on her neck, subtly checking her pulse once more. ''How are you feeling?''

All she does is shake her head.

''Listen, Laur.'' He takes her hand in his again, leaning in close to her to give them more privacy. ''Your body's been through a lot tonight. I'm sure you must be tired. And I know how hard it is to rest when you're in this much pain. So how about we help you out?''

He can tell just by the look in her eyes that she understands what he's suggesting. Weakly, she reaches up to remove the oxygen mask. ''Sedation?''

''Not for long,'' he says.

''With - With what?''

''Midazolam.'' Judging by the look on her face, she knows exactly what that is. ''We're talking about the lowest dose possible,'' he hurries to add. ''Just enough to give your body a break.''

She sniffles and puts the mask back over her mouth and nose, closing her eyes.

''This is not a relapse,'' he says lowly, firmly. ''You'll be monitored. Someone will be by your side the entire time you're out. We'll figure out the rest from there.''

She pulls down the mask again but doesn't open her eyes to look at him. ''Will I...'' She swallows. ''Will I even wake up?''

His instinct is to tell her that she will. He wants to be able to scoff and tell her, incredulously, that of course she will, why would she ever think otherwise? He can't do that. If the spell is already this badly frayed, what's to keep it from completely disintegrating in a matter of minutes? For all he knows, she might have a few days left or she might have less than an hour. There's no way to tell with this. This isn't medical. There are no concrete answers.

''I don't know,'' he admits quietly. ''You won't be in pain anymore.'' It doesn't seem like enough of a comfort. Not when she doesn't want to go. Not when she didn't even know this was something that could happen only hours ago. He should have told her. He should have prepared her for this. ''I'm sorry I didn't tell you,'' he says. ''I should have. It's your body. You had the right to...'' He trails off. ''I didn't think it was going to get this bad so fast. I thought I had time to find a way to fix this.''

She doesn't say anything but she squeezes his hand once more and drags her heavy eyelids open to look at him. She doesn't look angry, but it's hard to tell. Maybe she just doesn't want to die mad at him. She pulls the mask back down again and croaks out a quiet but firm, ''Do it.''

''Are you sure?''

''I'm tired,'' she rasps. ''It hurts.''

He tries not to think too much about that. ''Okay.'' He looks back over at John, managing to catch his eye and give him a quick nod. ''Do you know what we're going to do?'' He lowers his voice so he's talking just to her and leans in even closer. ''When all of this is over, we're gonna move,'' he proposes. ''How does that sound?''

She nods as eagerly as she can.

There's a spark in her eyes. He tries to look at that light for as long as possible. Tries to memorize it. Just in case. He didn't get the chance to do that last time. He wants to remember that light. ''We're getting the hell out of this city,'' he declares, pulling his lips back into a smile. ''We'll buy a farm.''

She looks dubious about that. ''A - A farm?''

''Maybe not a farm,'' he amends. ''But something with a lot of land. An acreage. With a view of the Puget Sound because you love the water. And lots of trees. I mean, I want it full of greenery,'' he emphasizes. ''I want to be surrounded by trees. We're going to live in the woods, baby. With tons of room for your garden and the dog we're eventually going to have to get Mary and maybe even an apple tree. So it feels like home.''

She takes in a few deep breaths and then moves the mask once more. ''And a big backyard,'' she mumbles tiredly. ''For the kids to play in.''

''That...'' The plurality is not lost on him. ''That sounds good. Anything you want. Everything you want. Just name it. I'll get it for you.'' It's a bold promise, one he won't be able to keep, and he knows that. They don't have the money to buy an acreage in the woods with a view of the Sound. They can barely afford their cramped house in a ''cheap'' neighborhood of Star City. But if she makes it through this, if they somehow both get out of this alive and they're free to go back to their lives, then fuck it. He'll get her that fucking house if they have to declare bankruptcy and rob a bank to do it. If she wants a garden, he'll get her a garden. If she likes the apple tree in their backyard, he will make sure they always have an apple tree in the backyard of whatever house they're living in. If she wants more kids, he'll give her more kids. He will raise a whole damn football team if she wants one.

''I just want you,'' she says hoarsely. ''You and Mary. You're all I want.''

''You've got us,'' he assures her.

She smiles. ''I'm glad.''

''You're going to wake up,'' he finally tells her. ''You're going to get some sleep, your body's going to recharge, and then you're going to wake up and keep fighting because that's what we do. We fight.''

''I know,'' she nods. ''I know.''

''I _will_ fix this. I promise.'' It's another big promise he shouldn't be making when he has no idea if he's going to be able to keep it, but how can he not? He has to give her something.

''If you don't,'' she whispers. ''If you can't...'' She licks her dry lips. ''Can you just… Can you make sure Mary knows I tried? Make sure she knows how much I love her.''

''I will.'' He clenches his jaw, bending down to kiss her forehead. ''I swear.''

A single dose of midazolam takes about five minutes to kick in when it's given through an IV. It takes Laurel less than three minutes to drift off. She manages to take the Motrin with a tiny sip of water and they give her a few minutes just to make sure it doesn't come back up before the IV line is prepped. She doesn't look afraid when they're preparing the IV line, doesn't even wince when the needle goes in, but there's a look in her eyes - a familiar glazed over look - that he doesn't like. He knows that her body needs rest but he's not confident with the decision to drug her. It's over and done with and they'll have to deal with the repercussions later, but there is a stab of regret in his gut as he watches her nod off.

The look on Sara's face tells him she's feeling the same pangs of regret and concern.

Alive and relapsing is still alive, as callous as that may sound. They can handle a relapse. It's the alive part they need to work on.

Dean does not let go of Laurel's hand until he's sure she's asleep, waiting patiently until he feels her grip go slack before he lets go.

He turns his attention to Sara. She's standing on Laurel's other side, eerily silent, holding her sister's hand in a death grip. She doesn't say anything for the longest time. Just stares at Laurel's face for a minute or two before she starts fussing with the blanket. She fixes Laurel's hair so it's not caught in the oxygen mask, rests her hand on Laurel's forehead to check her temperature, fixes the washcloths, and then she looks up. Right at him.

Even Dean has to admit that of all the gruesome horror movie bullshit he's seen, the sight of Sara Lance glaring at him is one of the more intimidating sights he's seen in awhile. This girl is all grit and steel and wild protectiveness.

''You,'' her voice is cool and hushed. ''Start. Talking.''

Dean never even has the chance.

''Magic has consequences.''

Sara stills for a brief second and then whirls around to face Cas. He's standing there behind her, eyes on Laurel. He looks tired - probably because they've woken him up in the middle of the night - and he looks worried, but he also looks calm. A steady kind of calm. He takes in the sight before him with a tilted head and then his eyes seek out Dean.

Dean can't take the look in his friend's eyes for too long before he has to look away. They both knew this was going to happen. They both knew the spell was unstable, that it was going to break sooner or later. The difference is that Dean has obsessively, almost hysterically, been trying to ignore that. Cas hasn't. Cas has buried himself under piles of research and lore, made phone call after phone call to witches all over the world trying to find a way out of this, reached out to every single contact the Winchesters have. He is the one who has been trying to save Laurel. The look in his eyes isn't pity. It's sorrow. Dean leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. Still, he's glad he's here. He doesn't have the fortitude to spew out all the necessary exposition for these people. He's been so focused on Laurel that he barely remembered to put on clothes and shoes before they left the house, Thea had to remind him to take his keys, and he straight up forgot a jacket. And he thinks there's a jam stain on this shirt from Mary. …He hopes it's jam.

Cas can handle this part. He can probably do it without being a snappy asshole too. ''The spell used to bring her back was done incorrectly,'' he says plainly. ''It's dissolving.''

''Dissolving,'' Felicity echoes, screwing her face up. ''Witchcraft can _dissolve_?''

''They meant to bring her back as a shell,'' Cas says. He looks at Laurel, concerned. ''They didn't. They brought her back whole. Laurel's continued existence as Laurel - our Laurel - is accidental. The spell isn't advanced enough to keep both her body and her soul here indefinitely.''

''So, that...'' Sara stops. She looks at Laurel. ''That means - ''

''She'll die,'' Dean says bluntly. ''She'll keep getting weaker and sicker and when the spell eventually splits apart, she'll die.''

He looks away before he can see Sara's reaction. He doesn't need to see it to know. He still remembers that day in May when she showed up on his doorstep, agonized and hysterical, begging him to tell her that what her father had told her was wrong and that Laurel was alive. That was enough for a lifetime. He doesn't need to watch her lose her again. ''She didn't tell me,'' he hears her say. ''She didn't tell me about any of this.''

He leans back in his chair, absently spinning his wedding ring.

Cas is looking at him with that aggravating all-knowing look in his eyes. He doesn't look like he's about to cup his hands over his mouth and yell out _I told you so_ at the top of his lungs, but there is a certain degree of exasperation on his face. He looks like he can feel the guilt rolling off Dean in waves.

Dean sighs heavily. ''She didn't know,'' he says, looking back over to Sara just as she snaps her head up to look at him.

''You didn't tell her?'' She sounds unexpectedly chill with that.

Felicity does not. ''You didn't tell your wife she was dying?!''

''No,'' his response is measured. ''I didn't.''

''I wouldn't have told her either.'' All eyes go to Sara. She shrugs, completely unapologetic. ''I'm not exactly Queen of Healthy Life Choices,'' she admits. ''But... I wouldn't have told her either.'' She looks at Dean and attempts a smile but ultimately fails.

''It's her body,'' Felicity says.

''I'm aware of that,'' is the terse response.

''Doesn't matter now,'' John says. ''What's done is done.'' He turns his attention to Cas. ''What can we do? How do we fix this? There has to be a way to stop the deterioration of the...'' He pauses and gestures awkwardly. ''Spell.'' He seems to have a hard time getting that one out. Team Arrow in general hasn't handled this whole witchcraft thing with a lot of tact. Suppose that's understandable.

Cas is quiet for a moment, looking over at Dean with apology in his eyes for a moment before he says, ''There's not.''

Dean shuts his eyes briefly, jaw clenching. He feels like he should be having a stronger reaction to that but he's... It's not a surprise.

''I'm sorry,'' Cas says. ''I've looked. The only thing I was told could possibly work is if we temporarily extract her soul from her body.''

''No,'' Sara's voice is a fierce snarl. She's already shaking her head, moving to stand in front of Laurel protectively. It's not hard to understand why she's so against the idea. She has never talked about the short period of time she was without her own soul. She apologized profusely to Thea about what she did to her, she asked about the girls she killed, and it has always been clear that whatever she was going through while her body was going on a killing spree scarred her, but she hasn't talked about it. Not with anyone. Sam made an attempt to reach out to her, tell her that he understood and that he was there for her if she ever wanted to talk, but she shut him down. Told him she just wanted to ''forget.'' It's easy to grasp why she would be dead set against her sister having to go through that. ''No, we can't,'' she says. ''We can't do that to her. It's not happening.''

''How...'' Dean frowns. He runs a hand over his face. He can't bring himself to look at Sara. ''How would that even work?''

''I sent the specifications of the spell to Max and Alicia Banes,'' Cas says. ''They told me that if we remove her soul and force the spell to do what it was designed to do, there's a chance it could stabilize her body while we try to find a way to strengthen the spell permanently. But – ''

''We're not taking her soul,'' Sara bursts out.

''We're not,'' Dean assures her.

''It's not a viable option at the moment,'' Cas continues, completely ignoring the interruption. ''Too many unknowns. We have no way to safely remove her soul. I don't know how we would contain her soul to keep it from moving on. I don't know how long she would have to be without her soul, and we have no idea what she would be like. The best case scenario is that she goes catatonic. She would be easy to control but she would need around the clock care. The worst case scenario is - ''

''She ends up feral,'' Sara says. ''Like I was.''

''Sara,'' Dean says. ''It's not happening.''

''With her powers as strong and uncontrolled as they are, she would be a ticking time bomb,'' Cas says. Which is harsh. But not untrue. ''I don't know if we would even be equipped to keep her here. Even if she doesn't go feral or catatonic, there is no guarantee we could hold her. She's smart. And manipulative.''

''Hey,'' Felicity protests, frowning deeply in offense on Laurel's behalf.

''No, he's right,'' Dean says. ''She is. She's a lawyer. It's literally her job.''

''A rogue Black Canary is not something we want,'' Cas confirms. ''She could do a lot of damage without her soul. It's...'' He stops, quite abruptly, and cuts his eyes to Dean.

It's not worth the risk, is what he was going to say.

Dean looks at Cas for a second before looking back to Laurel. She looks small lying there unconscious with an oxygen mask strapped to her face. It's a relief that she's not writhing in pain anymore, but it's a small relief. Cas is right. It's not worth the risk. A tough thing to admit, but that's the truth. Even if removing her soul did help her, it's too dangerous. She would be unpredictable. She would be a threat to the entire city.

She would never give her consent to have her soul removed if she knew she could hurt people. Soul extraction is what this Siobhan chick wants anyway. She wants Laurel to be compliant so she can mold her into a weapon. There is no fucking way he's going to just give her what she wants.

''Then there has to be something else,'' Sara says. ''This can't be - We can't just watch her die.''

''Where's Mattie Moretti?'' Cas asks, jumping in before Dean can say a word.

''Oliver has him,'' says Felicity. ''He's on his way here with him right now.''

Cas gives a curt nod. ''Good. I don't know how much power he has but he's a member of the family that cast the spell. If nothing else, he may know more about this spell than we do.''

Dean's eyes flick upward. ''If we could get a more powerful Moretti here, would that help?''

Cas doesn't answer the question, but he does say, very carefully, ''Do we know where they are?''

That's answer enough. Dean is on his feet in an instant. He doesn't feel as tired anymore. ''Sara,'' he looks over at her. ''Call your father and tell him to get down here as soon as he can.''

''She's not going to want him to see her like this.''

''Sara,'' he locks eyes with her. ''Call your father.'' There may be no love lost between him and his father in law but Quentin missed his chance to say goodbye once. If that happens a second time, it would kill the old man. Dean has no intention of letting that happen.

Sara seems to get the hint because she pales and pinches her lips together, but she still fishes her phone out with shaking hands and dials her father's number.

Dean turns to John. ''When she wakes up, give her the Zofran and fluids. Your Tylenol has codeine in it. Do not give that to her. Just push the fluids, the Motrin, and keep up with the damp towels. Put them on her forehead and her wrists.'' He waits until he gets a brisk nod in response before turning his attention to Felicity. ''Make sure she has a change of clothes for when she wakes up?''

She nods, but the second he starts to turn away, she lunges at him. ''Wait, Dean!'' She grabs onto his wrist. ''Where are you going?''

''She needs a stronger Moretti witch. I'm going to get one.''

Cas frowns deeply at that. ''Dean - ''

''You can't just leave her,'' Felicity insists. ''She needs you here. She's sick. You're her husband.''

''This won't take long.''

''But what if - ''

He doesn't let her finish that sentence. ''You got Queen in your ear?''

She blinks in shock, eyes widening as she steps back and brings a hand up to her ear.

In all honesty, Dean couldn't care less if Oliver's been listening in. That's so far removed from being one of his biggest problems that it doesn't even register. ''He's with Mattie?''

''He... Yes.''

''Good. Patch the kid through to my phone.'' He doesn't wait for a response from her. He turns, catching Sara's eye briefly. ''You two,'' he looks between her and Cas. ''Do not leave her side.'' Then he heads for the elevator.

Mattie said that his mother, grandmother, and sister had a lot of power. Marlene and Hanna, at least, were both at the graveyard the night they brought Laurel back. They know what happened. They know what went wrong. He's hoping that means they know how to fix this. Or stabilize her somehow until they can find a way to fix this. At the very least, he's hoping they can take the pain away.

He makes it all the way to the elevator and then Cas is there, blocking the door from shutting with his foot. ''I'm going with you.''

''No, you're not.''

''You can't go after them alone.''

''I'll be fine. I need you here,'' he says sternly. ''You're the only other person who knows what's happening to her.''

''Dean.''

''Cas, no.'' It comes out sharper than intended. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. ''Okay, look.'' He looks over Cas' shoulder at Laurel. ''We had to give her a benzo to help her sleep,'' he says. ''It was a low dose and she'll probably be fine, but I don't know if she'll...'' He stops. ''I need you to watch her. Don't let them give her another dose. You're the only one I trust with this.''

It may be a line but it _is_ also true. No one else in this room is aware of how bad things got with her or how fragile her sobriety really is. Cas is. He was there during the worst of it. He can take care of her. And if it keeps him out of harm's way in the process, even better. Sometimes he thinks Cas forgets that he's not an angel anymore.

''Like you said,'' Dean says softly. ''She's manipulative. Addicts always are.''

Cas looks at him for a moment, and then he narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side, staring at Dean intently for a moment. Most likely because he is not a moron and knows perfectly well that he's being worked over. But he steps back, away from the elevator doors, and doesn't look like he's going to stop him. ''I hope you know what you're doing.''

''If it makes you feel better, send Sam after me when he gets here.''

''But I don't know where you're going to - ''

The elevator doors close, cutting off the rest of his sentence. A huge relief considering Dean has no idea how to alleviate those particular concerns. He has no idea where he's going. He doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to find the other Morettis. He's hoping Mattie will be able to give him some sort of lead. They've already swept the ''Denton'' family home. He knows for a fact ARGUS did too. Everything seemed completely normal. No clothes missing, dishes in the sink, fridge full of food, mug of cold coffee on the dining room table, even a plate with half-eaten scrambled eggs on the kitchen counter. It looked like they left in a hurry and then just vanished.

If Mattie can't help, they're fucked.

He sighs, closing his eyes and fighting back a grimace. There is Plan B. That was put into motion shortly after Mattie was whisked away to the safe house yesterday. He doesn't love Plan B, but his hand has been forced. It's an unpredictable and dangerous plan, but Laurel was adamant that it was a valid option for tracking down and bringing in the Moretti family. Even with that plan in place, he doesn't have time to sit around and wait for someone else to do his dirty work for him. He needs to find these witches.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he fishes it out, answering with a rough, ''Yeah?''

 _''Dean?''_

''Hey, kid,'' He tries to keep his voice calm and light when talking to Mattie. ''Oliver's not being too much of a pain in the ass, is he?''

There's a long silence on the other end of the line before Mattie audibly lets out a breath and asks, _''How bad is Laurel?''_

Dean licks his lips slowly. ''Bad.'' For now, he tries to breeze right past it. ''When's the last time you saw your family?''

 _''I saw Hanna yesterday morning before Dad and Ricky asked for my help with...''_ He trails off _. ''It's - It's been a couple days since I saw Mom and Gran. They haven't been at home. They've been with Siobhan.''_

''You and your family have been on the run before. What do you do if you get separated?''

 _''My mom and Gran would do a locator spell.''_

''How long would it take you to do one of those?''

 _''I... I don't know.''_ Mattie sounds anxious just thinking about it. _''I've never done one by myself. I don't have any of the ingredients. I don't know if I can remember the words or - ''_

''All right,'' Dean cuts in. ''Calm down. Look, is there anywhere specific your family would go? Any kind of protocol you follow? What's familiar to them? Where would they feel safe?''

 _''Uh...''_

Dean bites down on his tongue to keep from rushing Mattie along. Oliver does not. He can hear Dollar Store Robin Hood trying to hurry up and intimidate the kid into spitting out an answer.

 _''We usually make sure we're on the edge of town,''_ Mattie finally says. _''In case we have to get out of dodge. We stay in cheap motels. I mean really cheap, shady, basic places. Cash only, no questions asked motels. And we always check in under my mom's maiden name. Weber.''_

Now that is something Dean knows well. He can work with that. He knows cheap motels like he knows the back of his hand. ''Okay, that's good,'' he says. ''That's helpful. Good job.''

 _''Dean.''_ Mattie's voice is hesitant. _''I'm sorry. I don't understand what's happening. I don't know what went wrong. This doesn't make any sense.''_

''What are you - ''

 _''My Gran,''_ the kid says. _''She's the one who wrote the spell that brought Laurel back. I have never seen her botch a spell in my entire life. Words do what she wants them to do. None of this makes any sense. It should have done what they wanted it to do. Even if it didn't, there's no way it should be degrading this fast.''_

Dean is quiet. There is no comfort in that. _It should have done what they wanted it to do._ What they wanted was a shell. An empty reanimated body with powers of mass destruction that some random unidentified antagonist could use as a weapon. That spell was a violation, plain and simple. A violation that they committed without any regard for bodily autonomy or consent because they needed the money. Fuck Gran's fucking spell. He's glad the old broad screwed up. This conversation would be going in a very different direction if it had ''worked.''

He is not going to unload any of that onto Mattie Moretti. Not tonight anyway. ''Can you help her?''

Mattie waits a long time before he answers, _''I'll try.''_

''Can you put Oliver on the phone?''

There's a shuffling, a rustling sound, and then, _''Dean?''_

''You get all that?''

 _''I did.''_

''Have Felicity text me a list of motels and addresses that fit the criteria.''

 _''This would have been easier to do,''_ Oliver gripes, _''if you had taken an earpiece with you. We could've stayed in communi - ''_

''You know what? Never mind. I've got my own hacker. I don't need - ''

 _''I'll get Felicity on it,''_ Oliver interrupts, though he sounds like he's talking through clenched teeth. _''You'll have the list shortly. Wait for me before you do anything.''_

''Wait for you?'' Dean laughs mockingly. ''The fuck would I do that for?''

 _''Do you seriously think you can just - ''_

''I don't need help from some green idiot with a leather fetish and an asshole for a mouth,'' Dean snaps. ''I was doing this back when you were holed up in your bedroom listening to Rusted Root and getting drunk on your mother's Zima.''

Oliver makes a noise like he's choking on his own tongue and then sighs heavily. _''Dean - ''_

''Back off, you walking piece of cardboard,'' Dean says, and then ends the call. Because, really, fuck the Green Arrow.

He pushes out into the cold air, trying his best to refocus. The sun's not up yet, won't be for at least another hour, but he needs to get a move on. This isn't something he wants to do in broad daylight, especially if the situation goes south. Unfortunately, he may not have much of a choice there. The daylight is approaching fast and even with Mattie's help, he has no idea how long it's going to take to find the Morettis. He slides into the driver's seat of the Impala and fumbles with the keys. He gets the key in the ignition but stops before he can turn it.

He's not planning on killing any witches today. He's sure this will end in a fight because these things always end in a fight, but he's not planning on getting blood on his hands right now. He needs these people alive if they're going to help Laurel and if what Mattie said was the truth then Hanna, at least, should be willing to come with him. He doesn't want to hurt them.

Maybe that's the problem people are having with him rushing off to go after the witches. Oliver and his team have made it clear that they think of him as violent and unpredictable, mostly because Oliver seems to really want that to be true and they just follow him. Even his own family have exhibited a new kind of caution around him ever since Darhk. None of these people have a leg to stand on when it comes to excessive violence, but that doesn't stop them from viewing him as some sort of scary loose cannon.

He stands by what he did to Darhk. Some bad guys just need killing. But he is not a monster, and it's starting to bother him how readily people want to buy into the idea that he's some sort of villain.

Dean lets out a breath and curls his fingers around the steering wheel. None of that is important right now. He's just trying to distract himself.

The passenger side door opens and he tries not to jump at the noise, watching as Thea climbs into the car. ''Where are we going?''

He swallows. ''Get out.''

She doesn't even flinch. ''Nope.''

''Where's my kid?''

''She's with Charlie and Nyssa.'' She tilts her head to the side and looks at him. He's not proud of this, but he's having a hard time looking her in the eye. ''Going to let me in on what the hell is happening?''

''Go inside,'' he tells her. ''They'll explain.''

''I'm asking you.'' ''Thea, I need you to get out of the car.''

''Too bad.''

He sighs, leaning his head back against the seat. There's no way he's going to get her out of this car. Thea Queen is, whether she knows it or not, a lot like her mother. He barely even knew Moira Queen. Met her once. He's still perfectly aware that Thea is her mother's daughter. She is a formidable woman. An immovable force. ''I'm going after the witches,'' he says.

She looks alarmed. ''Alone?'' Then she just looks annoyed. ''Uh-uh. No way. You need backup. I'm going with you.''

''Like hell you are,'' he snorts. ''You've never dealt with a witch before. You have no idea what you're doing.''

''And you clearly have no idea what I'm capable of.'' She smiles sweetly. ''Start the car.''

He blinks at her, mouth open like a fish.

She tosses him an impatient look. ''Come on. Let's get this show on the road. Laurel doesn't have time for this.''

He closes his mouth. He narrows his eyes. Well. How do you move an immovable force? ''We get into trouble and I tell you to run, you run. No arguments. Am I making myself clear?''

She gives him a mock salute.

Dean has a feeling he's going to regret this. He turns the ignition anyway.

.

.

.

There are five cheap ass motels on the list that Felicity texts him. Three of them are right on the edge of the Glades. One of them has been converted into a shelter for homeless youth. One of them has closed down. One of them is a drug den. This is made obvious by...everything about it, but especially by the dude out front who, after ascertaining that Dean is not a cop, looks them both up and down and says, cheerfully, ''Say... You look like you could use some heroin!''

To which Thea responds, equally cheerful, ''We're good, but thank you!''

Then she spends the entire drive to the next motel going off about how this country needs to get its shit together when it comes to the concept of safe injection sites.

After they've checked out the second to last motel on the list, she launches into another rant about how she keeps bringing up the worsening opioid crisis to her brother but he keeps shuffling it off the agenda in favor of things like the bike lanes in Orchid Bay (which have caused nothing but problems), the Black Canary statue (which got him sued), and slashing the budget for the Parks Department (which is ironic considering environmental sustainability was such a major part of his campaign platform).

She makes good points and on any other day, it would be entertaining to listen to her drag Mayor McCheese, but he's having trouble paying attention to her right now. He's trying to get all the way across town before the morning commuters start clogging up the roads.

Also, they have to drive right through Orchid Bay to get to the last motel and - fuck, does he ever hate those damn bike lanes.

It's not like she's looking for his input anyway. She's not even talking to him. She's just talking near him. Thea is mad at him. He can read that in her body language, the tone of her voice, and the way she refuses to look him in the eye. He can't blame her. They don't have time to hash it out right now so he lets it be. She's entitled to her anger, and he doesn't mind the quiet.

Nothing is truly quiet in the car, of course.

There is the worryingly fast thudding of his heart in his throat, his ears, his head, and there is the strange buzzing of electricity around his head, which suggests panic. Suggests fear. He and that slithering emotion are old pals by now. Fear has stood next to him for most of his life. This is a dizzying, sickening kind.

He's been thinking a lot about choices.

He doesn't think he often makes the right ones. Maybe it's not in his genetic makeup. Or maybe he's just a fuck up. Whichever. It doesn't matter at this point. Any way you slice it, the choices he makes always seem to end in blood, death, and self-loathing.

Years ago, right after they got married, when Laurel was pregnant, Dean decided to quit drinking. It was a choice that needed to be made. A baby didn't need a drunk for a dad, and Laurel was a mess during her pregnancy. He needed to get his shit together so he could take care of his girls. At first, he just cut back. Stopped day drinking, determinedly made a bottle of whiskey last more than a day or two, stopped at two beers with dinner. He figured he would eventually get to the point where he could stop altogether and it wouldn't be that big of a shock to his system. Then, shortly after Laurel's birthday, he decided that what he was doing was taking far too long and he needed to nut up and quit cold turkey.

One morning, he woke up impatient. He was worried that he wouldn't be clean and sober by the time the baby came, and he was worried that he would never be able to quit for good. So he took all the alcohol in the house and he dumped it down the drain. Laurel told him it was a bad idea. She warned him that withdrawal was going to be hell, that he was going to be sick and miserable, but he persisted. Said it had to be done sooner rather than later and he just wanted to get it over with. He assured her that it would be fine. He would be fine. He could handle the withdrawal. He'd done it before. Which, technically, was a half-truth. He had been through the early stages of withdrawal before, but he had always given in before it could get too bad.

And it got bad.

You cannot possibly begin to imagine how excruciating alcohol withdrawal is when you're so dependent on the shit that you can barely remember your own name without a beer or two in you. You have no idea the horror until you're in the thick of it, collapsed in your own sweat and vomit on the kitchen floor, hallucinating your dead mother. Nothing teaches you what it feels like to be dust the way withdrawal does.

Quitting cold turkey was a bad idea. Laurel was right about that. Dean wound up in the emergency room in the middle of the night, hallucinating, having seizures, and apparently almost choking on his own vomit. He only remembers bits and pieces of that, but it doesn't sound like it was fun.

Laurel wound up with bruises.

It wasn't all that horrible at first. Sure, it sucked but puking, shivering, sweating, and having that shaky desperate voice in the back of his head plead over and over again for just one more drink were all things he could handle. It was when the hallucinations started that things began to spiral out of control. He's been told that a lot of people hallucinate bugs crawling on their skin. He did not hallucinate bugs.

At first, it was vines. They started in the corner of the bedroom and then crawled up the wall to the ceiling and slowly made their way over to him. He watched a creeping, sprawling vine close around Laurel's ankle once but when he tried to warn her, it was gone and she was looking at him like he was a wild animal she had accidentally gotten too close to.

Then it was Laurel herself. He'd answer a question she never asked, hear a laugh that didn't happen, or he'd look over and she would be standing right next to him when she was really in the kitchen making him some dry toast.

Then his mother showed up.

She was in the bathtub. She was underwater. Her eyes were wide open but lifeless and she was staring at him. He thinks, even now, about how strange it was that he hallucinated her in water and not in flames. He freaked when he saw her. At one point, vacillating between begging for a drink to make her go away and asking for Laurel to help her out of the water, he grabbed onto Laurel's wrists and backed her into a wall.

Didn't even realize that he'd done it or that he was holding onto her so tightly he was leaving marks. He doesn't know what he had been thinking in that moment. Obviously he hadn't exactly been rational. He was manic and babbling about his dead mother sitting in their bathtub.

Laurel handled it with a surprising calm. She just said, softly, ''I can't help you if you don't let me go.''

Looking back on it that must have been the point where she called for help. He hadn't wanted her to tell anyone about what was happening. Kept taking her phone away from her every time she brought up calling Sam or Cas but she must have gotten a hold of the phone when his dumb ass was in the bathroom trying to save a dead woman who wasn't really there.

It was also around the same time he looked at her and watched in horror as his wife's voice stopped being her voice and her kind, grounding face melted away, leaving someone else standing in her place. It started with her eyes, he remembers. He looked at her and suddenly the whites of her eyes had blown out and there was an ugly smirk on her face that was not her smirk. And also not her face.

And then there was no more Laurel and he wasn't sure there ever had been.

There was just Alastair.

Alive and breathing, with that familiar cruel tint to his lips, that mocking gleam in his eyes, and a bloodthirsty laugh. He looked so happy to see him. ''C'mere, boy,'' he'd rasped out in this creaky voice, grinning at him with bloody teeth as the apartment shifted and then dropped away, replaced by suffocating heat and meat hooks. ''I'm so glad you found your way home to me. I know how much you've been missin' me, son.''

Dean did not hurt Laurel that night. Just to make that clear. Other than the bruises on her wrists, he did not lay a hand on her. But he _could_ have. He _wanted_ to. He looked at her, thinking she was Alastair, and all he felt was this immeasurable sense of rage and hate. Things could have gone completely sideways. Only reason they didn't is because Tommy got the text Laurel sent him, burst into the apartment at the exact right moment, and startled Dean out of the hallucination. He managed to sweet talk Dean into going to the ER, called a car to come take Laurel to his condo for a few days, and that was that.

He came home after a week away, started AA meetings and therapy (which was Laurel's one request, even though she could have asked for pretty much anything and he would have done it), and none of what happened that night was ever held against him. Hell, less than two months later Tommy whisked them both away to the Merlyn family's Lake Tahoe house for an impromptu ''babymoon.''

He still doesn't understand why. Why she stayed. Why she even allowed him to be part of their child's life after he left bruises on her wrists. But then, he's never been able to understand her immense capacity for forgiveness. Though he's grateful for it.

He has not had a moment of unreality so intense that he couldn't differentiate between Hell and Home since that night. Sure, there have been a couple dark moments over the past seven months where he wondered if it was possible that maybe he had never left Hell at all and there were a few instances of hallucinations because of the sleep deprivation but he mostly just hallucinated Laurel. Grief can do crazy things to a person, that's all it was. He knows he's not in Hell. He knows that this is his life and he knows that it is very real.

The only thing that can heal trauma, can even make it bearable, is time. Putting distance between you and the thing that broke you. These days, there is a lot of distance between Dean and Hell. For the most part, he thinks he's doing all right. Still, sometimes he wonders...

What exactly has Hell done to him? What's he made of now? He's not a demon, but he's not the person he was either. Most of the time, those questions aren't even a blip on his radar. It's hard to have an existential crisis when you're knee deep in the apocalypse. Or when your wife is in the midst of a nervous breakdown. Or when your entire life consists of sippy cups, changing diapers, sign language, and stupid fucking Peppa Pig.

For a long time, he hasn't had a chance to slow down and ask himself these questions. Things are different now. The past seven months have been rough. He feels like a stranger in his bones. He has barely slept. He's been quiet, angry, snappish.

He drove nine hours to Central City on crazed, sleep deprived impulse, cornered Caitlin Snow while she was alone and tried to emotionally manipulate her into letting him in with Dinah by using her dead husband against her.

He nearly fucked his dead wife's doppelganger in some cheap motel, manipulated and gaslighted her into thinking she was safe with him, drugged her, and shot her when she tried to fight back. All to get her back in a pipeline that he's not all that confident she belongs in.

He tortured a man to death without hesitance and without regret. Carved him right up just like Alastair taught him to.

He didn't tell Laurel about the spell. He withheld information from her about her own body and her health.

These don't exactly seem like the choices a good man would make. Either the Pit changed him more than he's been willing to admit until now or he's more like his father than he previously thought. He's not sure which option is worse.

Alastair was right all those years ago when he said _you left a part of yourself back in the Pit._

There is no going back. Sometimes he forgets that.

He needs to fix this. That's what has to be done. There are a lot of things he can't fix, but if he can find Marlene, Bernadette, and Hanna and get them to help then he can fix Laurel. He'll do something right for once. He just needs to do something _right._

Thea is the one who breaks through the thick silence between them just as they're pulling up to the last motel on the list. It's taken them a lot longer than he thought it would to check the other motels and he's anxious to get back to Laurel. The sky is beginning to lighten at the edges, although there is no real orange glow from the sunrise thanks to the thick clouds hanging overhead.

Dean has just cut the engine and is busy searching the motel on the other side of the street for any obvious signs of the Moretti witches when he hears her speak.

''Why didn't you say anything about the spell deteriorating?'' Her voice is quiet and when he looks over at her, she's not looking at him.

He doesn't think about his answer. Just blurts out, ''I was going to fix it.''

''But you didn't.''

''I didn't think it was going to break down this quickly,'' he says. She seems to be shooting for a calm discussion rather than a shouting match so he does his best to keep his voice even and unaffected. ''I thought I had more time.'' He pockets the keys and gets out of the car, selfishly hoping he can leave this conversation behind, but she follows him.

''That doesn't change the fact that you still should've told her about this,'' she says, as if that's somehow news to him. She closes the passenger side door. ''This is like...like...'' She trails off, struggling. ''I don't even know! Like not telling your wife she has a terminal illness.''

He doesn't react much to that at all. He's not sure if she's hoping that triggers some sort of lightbulb moment or what, but his non-reaction appears to trouble her. He offers her a shrug, but that's about all he's got. ''What do you want me to say?'' He asks. ''Tell me what you need me to do here, and I'll do it.''

Thea draws her lips into a tight line and straightens her shoulders in a frighteningly accurate imitation of her mother. Unlike her mother, she almost instantly deflates. ''I don't know,'' she says, helpless. ''I don't know. I don't want...'' She shakes her head. ''She's going to die, isn't she?'' She doesn't even sound sad. Just exhausted and resigned. ''She's going to die and we're going to watch.''

''No, she's not. We're going to fix this.''

''And if we can't?''

''Then the last thing she'll see is us trying to save her.'' He's not sure if that's good enough. If it brings her any comfort. He's going to go ahead and guess it does not.

He looks over at the motel across the street. Unlike the motels they checked out in the Glades, this one looks unassuming from the outside. It's not particularly rundown looking. It's old but it looks well maintained. There's a maid's cart tucked into the corner of the second floor balcony, the parking lot is well lit, and there are even baskets of flowers hanging from the balcony and next to the door to the front office. They're wilted and dying, but it's the thought that counts.

Even the area of town isn't that bad. It's an older area of Star City, a little weathered, still heavily industrial, most of the places still stubbornly boast _Starling_ City rather than Star City, and nothing is as shiny and chrome as downtown or as Stepford as the suburbs. It's still a good area of town. Not overly dangerous. This was the foundation of this city long before it was a city. Before there was a Star City, before there was even a Starling City, there was just the town of Starling.

Just a small working class town with a couple motels, a corner store, a few residential areas, and the docks. It was a port town. Relied on fishing and logging, then got into importing and exporting, and then there was a tourism boom and it became a hot spot for people who didn't want the hustle and bustle of Seattle but still wanted a feel of the Pacific Northwest. That was before the big corporations took over and the rich took hold and the small port town exploded into a thriving city.

Dean did not grow up here. He didn't learn any of that in school. He learned from Laurel. Back when she was pregnant and they were looking at houses, they looked at a house down here. It was close to the water, a little off the beaten path so there was privacy, with space for a garden, and the price was right. The place was in rougher shape than first thought and they didn't have the time or the money to put into repairing the place with a baby on the way so they passed on the house, but he still remembers the way Laurel babbled during the entire walkthrough about the history of this area. Confused the hell out of the realtor.

''Sorry,'' she'd laughed, when she caught sight of the weird look their realtor was throwing their way. ''My grandfather was a history professor. He specialized in local history. I know way too much about this place.''

It's an odd nervous quirk of hers. Dean smiles lightly, trying to ignore the desperately worried pang in his chest. If Laurel makes it through this, he will never again roll his eyes at her rambles or tease her when random historical facts start spilling out.

''I didn't want her to know.'' He turns to look at Thea. ''She's scared enough as it is,'' he says. ''I didn't want to add to that. I didn't want her to spend the time she has left feeling panicked. I wanted her to spend it with Mary. I wanted her to be happy.''

It's not the whole truth and he suspects Thea knows that, but she softens anyway. ''Dean,'' she says gently. ''You didn't tell her because you didn't want to admit what was happening. I get that you didn't want her to be scared, but that's not why you didn't tell her. You didn't tell her because _you_ didn't want to be scared.''

He has no idea why she says that so tentatively. ''Well, yeah.'' He chuckles lowly. ''No shit, Speedy.''

Does she honestly think he's going to bother to refute that claim? She looks surprised by how easily he accepted it. Maybe it's not hard to grasp why. There's no way she could ever understand. She has been through a lot of loss in her young life but the one thing she has never lost is a spouse.

Do you know what the most frustratingly exhausting part of being a widower is?

It's what's left behind. Or, rather, what is not. It's the space in the bed, the silence of the mornings, the void she left behind, the absence of the damn avocado toast. It's all the places in the world where she is not. It's learning to live in the abyss. Grief is a lot like a hungry wild animal, sitting beside you, waiting to devour you whole, but it's also a lot like a chasm. A gaping hole in your bed and your heart, in the kitchen where she used to keep the avocadoes, the desk in the living room where she used to sit and work. It grows bigger and bigger every day as the distance between you and when she was here stretches out. It's not something you can run from. That's the thing. That's what you learn in grief. There is no running.

After the shock and anger have quieted down, after you've buried her and killed the monster and washed the blood from your hands, all you are left with is an emptiness that cannot love you back.

So, yes. Yes, he was afraid. He has forgotten how to be anything else.

''Every time we think we have something figured out, we always end up getting knocked flat on our asses,'' he says, and then pauses, shaking his head. ''Every fuckin' time.''

Thea visibly deflates.

He looks up at the sky, quickly growing lighter and lighter as the day approaches. He clears his throat and tries to shake off the melancholy. ''We don't have time for this,'' he says, turning away from her. ''We need to get back to Laurel.''

He starts across the street and Thea hurries after him. ''Right, okay,'' she falls into step with him. ''What do you want to do here? Same deal as last time?''

''If there's anyone in the office.'' At first glance, he doesn't think there is. The neon sign displaying the word ''open'' is half burnt out and the front office looks mostly empty from what he can see through the window and the glass door. Then he catches sight of a man shuffling around inside, making his way back over to the front desk. Dean pulls the door open, letting Thea go in ahead of him.

The front desk manager is small and wiry, early thirties, pale, and he's holding a watering can. There's a sad, very dead looking ficus in the corner of the room and an equally dead looking houseplant on the counter. The clerk looks up from halfheartedly watering the plant when they walk in, but only minutely. The blank, tired looking expression on his face never changes. He pokes at a succulent on the counter with the pencil he's pulled from behind his ear. He does not seem at all interested with his new potential customers.

Regardless, Dean puts on his best charming smile and approaches the front desk. ''Morning,'' he greets. ''Long night?''

The man behind the counter offers him a tight lipped smile that does not reach his eyes. ''You have no idea.''

Dean takes a split second to scan the room before he widens his grin, showing off his teeth. ''You and me both, pal.''

''We've been driving all night,'' Thea chimes in. She's plastered this sweet, innocent smile on her face and widened her eyes slightly to make herself look younger. Even her voice is lighter when she talks to him. ''All the way from Manhattan,'' she says, and then giggles. ''Manhattan, Montana that is.'' She rolls her eyes with all the dramatics of a sullen teenager. ''Super boring in comparison but Dad just _had_ to move us there after Mom died. You know how many people live in Manhattan, Montana?''

Dean has no idea where she's going with this, but he has no choice but to roll with it, huffing and muttering under his breath. ''Oh hell. Not this again, Mia.''

''It doesn't even have a Starbucks!''

She is adding way too many details to the lie but she does love her stories. At the last place they went to, they were from Chester, West Virginia - ''home of the world's largest teapot,'' she'd announced proudly to the bemused night clerk - and they were in town to retrieve her little sister, Dixie, who had run off with the local quarterback.

''Mama's already followed her here,'' she'd said, making sure to add an exaggerated (and terrible) Southern twang to her voice. ''But Daddy says she's too soft on Dixie and somebody's gotta put the fear of God into her before she gets herself pregnant. He don't want her to be a knocked up debutante the way Mama was.''

The woman behind the desk at that place looked like she had seen some shit over the years so she was not particularly moved by the story but Dean still put on his best West Virginia and snapped out, ''Hush up, Anna Mae, you ain't helpin' nothin' airin' all our dirty laundry in front of the locals.''

He's about 90% certain Thea's fucking with him at this point. She has to be. In both of these scenarios, he is her father. It feels like an unnecessary addition. Yes, he understands that he is technically old enough to be her father but he doesn't feel that needs to be advertised so continuously. He gets the feeling this is how she's choosing to punish him.

''Anyway,'' he says, giving 'Mia' one last Dad Look before turning back to the clerk. ''Hate to bother you so early in the morning,'' he pauses to glance at the guy's name tag, ''Chad, but, uh, we're headed to Spokane for a family reunion and we've hit a bit of a snag.''

Thea looks up from picking at her nails. ''Uhhmmm,'' she drawls out, tossing a sour look in his direction. ''That's, like, an understatement?'' She rolls her eyes again and adds on a scoff this time. ''The _problem_ is that we were _supposed_ to pick up my grandmother and aunt from the airport here on our way to Spokane but we were late because _someone_ got all pissy and threw the directions out the window. _While we were on the highway_.''

''I did not _throw_ the directions out the window,'' he protests. ''I told you. It was an accident.''

''My aunt said they'd find a place to stay for the night but - ''

''My sister's shit with directions.'' He shakes his head. ''Always has been. It's a problem.''

Thea nods in confirmation. ''Once, when I was thirteen, she almost drove me and my cousin into a lake.''

''Pretty sure the directions she sent us are bogus,'' Dean says. ''We think she might've gotten the area of town right, but the address is wrong and this is the third place we've checked around here - ''

''Name,'' Chad drones. His expression has not wavered once during their little skit. He's still got that vacant and disinterested look on his face. Suppose their performance hasn't moved him either. Or maybe he's just had a painfully long night here at the Bull's Eye motel.

''Weber,'' Dean says. ''Last name's Weber.''

''I'll check the books,'' Chad says, and then turns and ambles away.

Dean looks over at Thea with an arched eyebrow. ''You had way too much fun with that.''

She snickers.

He goes on, asking, ''Can't you just say you're my sister?''

''No,'' she shrugs. ''That wouldn't make your eye twitch like it does when I say you're my dad.''

He shakes his head but can't help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He takes a minute to look around the office. It's a small space. Front desk, little bell on the counter, jukebox in the corner behind the desk playing Take Me Home, Country Roads, fluorescent lights, neglected plants and far too many succulents, a table holding some pamphlets and takeout menus, and a doorway that must lead to a back office, which is where Chad has disappeared to. Everything in the space seems weirdly outdated. The curtains in the window are giving off some serious 80's vibes, the wood paneling and the flooring looks straight out of the 70's, the desktop computer looks at least ten to fifteen years old, and the most recent takeout menu is from 2011.

Dean peruses the pamphlets on the shelf, flipping through them listlessly until one particular flyer catches his eye. He stops abruptly and tugs the piece of paper out. He recognizes this flyer. He had almost forgotten about it.

It's for CNRI.

The flyer is dated January, 2011. The very beginning. CNRI was a hastily put together start up company in 2011. It was funded mostly by the scraps Laurel and Joanna could pull together and donors, specifically the two big donations that buoyed them in the first few months - one from Joanna's Senator uncle, the other from a shell corporation that everyone ''knew'' (but didn't officially know) was owned by Moira Queen. They advertised everywhere during those early days. Flyers, business cards, print ads, online ads, buses, billboards, even a commercial.

He puts the flyer back on the shelf, tucked behind the old takeout menus for Big Belly Burgers and Mario's Pizza.

2011 was a lifetime ago, wasn't it?

He looks around the time capsule of an office. He narrows his eyes slightly as the John Denver song ends, leaving them in silence. The stillness of motel front offices have always been a comforting constant in his life. It's like coming home. The closest he ever got to it anyway. This one is not comforting. This one is giving him the creeps.

Why would an office manager need to go into a back room to check the records of guests staying at the motel?

He closes his eyes and then blows out a breath.

''Um, hey, quick question,'' Thea says, just as he's turning around. He can tell by the look on her face that she's caught on.

He doesn't even let her finish. ''They're here,'' he says, eyeing the doorway the front desk manager just escaped through. He is really off his game tonight. It should not have taken him this long to figure this crap out. He draws his weapon, keeping the gun pointed at the ground as he moves behind the desk. He takes a quick glance at the messy desk and then looks at the floor. Somehow he doesn't think those droplets of blood are part of the forest green and mustard yellow vinyl flooring.

''Aw, crap,'' Thea sighs out from beside him, staring down at the blood on the floor in exasperation. ''You know,'' she props her hands up on her hips. ''I'm supposed to be retired.''

''Yeah.'' Dean looks over at the window, peering out into the parking lot. ''So am I.'' There is no sign of movement in the mostly empty parking lot. No sign of Chad. If that's even his real name. ''Check for any log of recent check ins.'' He waits until she nods before turning the doorknob and stepping into the back hallway.

Nothing immediately jumps out at him. That's a plus. In the back, there is a hallway with three doors. One to the left, one to the right, and one in the back that leads out to the alleyway beside the motel. That door is wide open. Dean keeps his gun at the ready as he follows the drops of blood into a tiny bathroom off to the right. The second he opens that bathroom door he knows what he can expect to find in the room across the hall.

The bathroom, a relatively small space with just a sink and a toilet is a bloody mess. It's a crime scene. There's blood on the floor, on the walls, splattered on the mirror, even some on the ceiling. The worst of it is the sink. What was once, from the looks of it, a fairly clean white porcelain sink is now red with blood. It's not just blood either. There are clumps of hair and skin and what looks like possibly skull fragments and brain matter on the ledge of the sink.

He looks at the blood-splattered mirror once before turning away to the door across the hall. There's a bloody smeared handprint on the doorknob and the door isn't shut all the way. There's a strange glow emanating from what appears to be a darkened room. He trudges across the hall to nudge the door open with his shoulder.

Sprawled out on the floor in a pool of blood is, presumably, the real motel manager. He checks for a pulse, just in case, but isn't surprised when there's nothing. Half of the guy's skull has been caved in and the body is cold and stiff. He's been dead for awhile.

Dean looks up at the various screens on the table. Each one of them is displaying nothing but snow. He leans in closer to read the words scribbled on the pieces of tape. Front entrance, parking lot #1, parking lot #2, back lot, alley. Security cameras. All of them disabled. He tucks his gun back into the waistband of his jeans and rubs at his face tiredly. This just keeps getting more and more complicated, doesn't it? He really thought they were making some progress last night. They knew who brought her back. They knew why. They had a name for the other piece of the puzzle. All they had to do was find Siobhan.

Now they've got whatever the fuck this is.

One step forward, two steps back.

He takes one last look at the body and then heads back to Thea. He'll call it in on the way out, after they've wiped their prints from the place. ''There's a body in the back room.''

She looks up from the computer. ''A body?''

''The front desk clerk,'' he says. ''The real one.''

''Where's the other guy?''

''Far as I can tell, he bolted out the back.''

Thea grabs what looks like a log book from the desk, shaking off what looks like crumbs before thumbing through it. ''You think there's any possibility that this could be unrelated? You know just your garden variety Star City crap? Just a coincidence?''

He presses the back of his hand to the half drank mug of coffee that's sitting on the desk. Cold. ''No such thing.''

She sighs. ''Yeah, I figured.'' She tosses the book back down. ''There's no record of any Webers, Morettis, or Dentons checking in. There's no records of any recent check ins actually,'' she says. ''Someone wiped the system clean. On the bright side,'' she perks up a little, crossing her arms. ''This means we're on the right track. I mean...'' She winces. ''Guess it's not so bright for the dead guy but for us - ''

He looks over her shoulder for a second. Just one second. He catches sight of a flash of movement through the window and his body's already moving before his brain even has a chance to catch up. He reacts on pure instinct, throwing his body into Thea's and bringing her to the ground behind the desk just as there is a familiar explosion of noise. A shotgun blast. Shattering glass. He keeps his body over Thea's even though they're well protected by the desk. There's a hazy sense of false calm and quiet after the initial blast, and then the sound of the assailant reloading. Or at least trying to.

''See?'' She's hissing, backing up against the desk as soon as he lets go of her. ''I told you we were on the right track.''

''Sshh.'' He holds up a hand to silence her. Theoretically, he could reach for his gun and start shooting but a shootout is not exactly what he wants right now and he doesn't even know where this other person is. There's a clattering sound from what sounds like right outside the door, like the guy has fumbled the reload and the shells have gone falling to the ground. He listens to the slow sound of the approaching footsteps and just as the guy's shadow falls over them, Thea attacks.

Without so much as a warning, she climbs over Dean, kicks the rolling desk chair out from behind the desk and Probably Not Really Chad has no time to retreat. He tumbles over the chair, landing hard on his chest with a wheezing groan and the gun goes flying. He attempts to grab at Thea's ankle when she gets to her feet but misses. Dean launches himself to his feet and tears the chair away. Chad has a quicker recovery than anticipated. He moves fast, surprisingly so, and manages to haul himself to his feet and whip out a knife before Dean has a chance to grab him by the scruff of his neck.

Unfortunately for him, his intelligence does not exactly match his speed and agility. He attacks like a moron, slashing wildly, with the kind of movements that tell Dean that this kid has never held a knife before now. His dead eyed expression still has not once changed. Dean catches his wrist, twists it until the knife drops, and spins him around, pinning him to his body in a choke hold. Chad attempts to struggle and claw and he does seem to have some weird strength to him, but even then, he's a small dude. It's easy to physically overpower him.

''All right,'' Dean snaps out as Chad continues to squirm like a pissed off cat in a bath. ''Calm down. Solid A for effort, buddy, but you're built like a limp green bean from the 40 year old can we found squirreled away under my wife's grandfather's bed after he died.''

A few feet away, Thea has successfully retrieved the gun from the ground. She does not look impressed by either the green bean comparison or the fact that she's holding a gun. ''Never trust a guy named Chad,'' she laments under her breath. ''Hey.'' She approaches the wriggling string bean and slaps him lightly on the cheek to get his attention. ''These?'' She holds up the double barrel sawed off. ''Not for civilians. You couldn't even use it properly. You could have seriously hurt yourself.''

''Pretty sure this guy's soulless,'' Dean interjects. He swings the guy around and throws him into the chair, nearly sending it toppling over. ''Don't think he's gonna be absorbing your lecture.''

She frowns, tilting her head to the side. ''How can you tell?''

''His face, mostly,'' Dean shrugs. ''He's not spittin' mad that he just got taken down by an office chair from Staples.'' He takes the shotgun from her hands, checks to make sure it's unloaded, and then places it on the desk. He looks closer at the man in the chair. He hasn't tried to stand up and attack. He hasn't spoken. It's unnatural. He stares up at them calmly and blankly. He doesn't look angry or scared. He just looks like he's waiting for something. This isn't just soullessness. This is brainwashing.

Dean bends down to give Chad a quick onceover, assessing him for any visible marks or tattoos. Seems like a strange pick for a soldier. He's scrawny, almost to the point of looking emaciated. No muscle or heft to him whatsoever. He looks older than he most likely is, and he does not look like he's at all healthy. There's a bluish tinge to his skin, his eyes have a familiar hollowed out look to them, and his face is gaunt. He's got a serious case of meth mouth, sores on his lips, what looks like burns on his fingers, and when Dean lifts the guy's sleeves up, his arms are full of track marks.

This man is a heroin addict. An active user judging by how fresh some of these track marks look. Dean looks at the man's dull blue eyes, searching for any spark of life. Nothing. He pauses and then gently tugs Chad's jacket back to look at the tag sewn into the collar of the well-worn jacket he's wearing. Dean looks at the dirty white tag with the blue lettering, and closes his eyes, releasing a sigh.

After the undertaking, Laurel, Joanna, and some of their team members had stuck around the wreckage of CNRI for over a month. They salvaged what they could before what was left was torn down, went back and forth on whether or not attempting a rebuild was financially feasible, dealt with insurance adjusters and devastated, scared clients, and eventually, they sold the lot. The biggest reason for the sale was practicality. The place was a money pit. They couldn't afford to rebuild and they couldn't afford to let the empty lot sit there. The other reason was that Laurel did not want to be anywhere near that place ever again.

Laurel loves the Glades. It was her first home. Before her grandparents' house, before the Lance family townhouse, there was the cramped apartment in the Glades where Dinah and Quentin lived in as a bright-eyed young couple. Laurel and Sara were both born there. Took their first steps there. Said their first words there. Oliver can talk about ''his city'' all he wants, but the Glades is all Laurel's. She has made that clear time and time again. She will always do whatever she can for the people who live in that community because it's _her_ community. But she did not want anything to do with the place where Tommy died. She wanted to rebuild CNRI. She just couldn't do it there.

They didn't get a lot of money out of the sale. It was a small piece of land in the middle of an area of town that had just experienced a devastating act of domestic terrorism. Not to mention, they accepted the first offer they were given. Most of the money from the sale went toward student loans and the medical bills Laurel had from the night of the Undertaking.

A nonprofit organization bought the place. Homelessness has been on the rise in the Glades since the Undertaking. That is an unfortunate reality. A lot of people lost their homes. A lot of already low income people lost their jobs. A lot of people were hurt in the quake - both physically and mentally - and could no longer hold down jobs and couldn't afford to seek help. The earth may have stopped shaking four years ago but what Malcolm Merlyn did that night is still actively unraveling people's lives. The nonprofit organization that bought the spot where CNRI used to be built a homeless shelter. They've built two more in the years since. Masked vigilantes are not the only people trying to make a difference in this city. This particular homeless shelter has made a habit of providing each person who walks through their doors with a fleece blanket, a new pair of shoes, and a new jacket. A jacket that has a white tag with blue lettering sewn into the back with the address and phone number of the shelter on it.

Dean fixes Chad's coat, tucking the tag back in and pulling down his sleeves before drawing away and standing up straight. He rubs at his jaw, fighting back a grimace, and then, suddenly, feels anger flare in his gut. You don't grab an active heroin user off the street and brainwash the poor sucker because it's easy or convenient and you certainly don't do it for strength. You do it to send a message.

If he has to go back to his wife, to _the Black Canary_ , and tell her that vulnerable people are being snatched off the streets of _her_ community and being turned into soulless soldiers, she is going to flip her shit.

''Okay,'' he says softly. ''You can speak, right?''

A nod and then, ''Yes.''

''Do you have a name? I'm guessing it's not really Chad.''

The guy shrugs. ''I don't remember.''

That's grim. Dean plucks the knife off the floor and drops it on the desk next to the unloaded gun, both of them out of Chad's reach.

''You don't remember who you were before this?'' Thea asks.

Chad looks right at her and says, deadpan, ''I was no one.''

She flinches, but tries to pretend she doesn't. She looks fidgety, standing there with her arms crossed, tapping her foot. Not hard to see how brainwashing might bring up some bad memories for her. ''Why aren't you attacking us?''

''Not part of my orders.''

Dean asks, ''What are your orders?''

''I can't let anyone get past the front office,'' comes the droning reply. ''I have to keep the area clear.''

''So if we try to leave?''

''I'll have to kill you.''

Dean leans back against the desk, watching Chad carefully. ''You were sent to this motel,'' he says. ''Why?''

Chad looks up at him, serious. ''Marlene Moretti tried to run,'' he says. ''That's no good. Can't have that. She doesn't like loose ends.''

Dean shares a glance with Thea. ''Does she have a name?''

''She's got lots of names,'' says Chad.

''Is one of them Siobhan?''

A nod.

''But that's not her real name, is it?''

That, unsurprisingly, is where Chad clams up.

Dean cocks his head to the side. ''You find Marlene Moretti?''

Chad blinks, then shrugs and says, ''I don't answer to you.''

''That's interesting,'' Dean says, ''because you sure have been so far.''

Chad remains impassive.

''You were sent here to tie up loose ends,'' says Dean. ''Did you?'' Nothing. ''What happened to Marlene?'' Still nothing. ''What about Hanna? Or Bernadette?'' He leans down to look into Chad's empty eyes. ''Did you kill an eighteen-year old girl and an old woman? Is that the dirty work she sent you here to do?''

Chad says, again, ''I don't answer to you.''

Dean sighs and straightens up. This is a giant waste of time. He looks at the soulless brainwashed dude sitting in the chair. There's no real way of knowing where his soul is, if they can get it back, or even if it's possible to break the brainwashing. ''Thea,'' he says. ''I need you to go wait outside.''

''What?'' She furrows her brow. ''If I try to leave, he'll attack.''

''That's true,'' Chad confirms. ''I will.''

''He won't get very far.''

She narrows her eyes. ''You want me to leave so you can kill him.''

No use in lying. ''Yes.''

''Dean, he's a person.''

''Not anymore,'' he states bluntly. ''He doesn't have a soul and he's been brainwashed to kill.''

Immediately, he recognizes that that was the exact wrong thing to say to her.

''I was brainwashed to kill,'' she reminds him with a glare. ''Should I have been killed?''

He bristles. ''That was different.''

She laughs hollowly. ''No, it really wasn't. I killed someone,'' she says. ''I killed your family. You didn't put me down like a dog.''

He brings a hand to his forehead in exasperation. ''Thea -

''Sara killed multiple people when she was soulless,'' she continues. ''Should we have given up on her?''

''It's not the same thing,'' he insists because - really, it's not. Thea was drugged and temporarily brainwashed into murdering Sara. It was fucked up, a disgusting violation of both women, and if Dean ever sees Malcolm Merlyn, he's going to do what Oliver has refused to do for years and put a bullet through the asshole's skull just on principle, but it was not the same. Sara's soul was misplaced, but it was still within reach. This is not the same thing. This is not like what happened to Thea or what happened to Sara or even what happened to Sam. This poor fucker's soul could be blown to smithereens for all they know. He's an empty shell. It sucks for him, but letting him go will only put other people in danger. He's been programmed to do whatever this woman tells him to do. There's no telling what he could wind up doing or who he could wind up hurting.

Thea doesn't see it that way. She looks at Chad, crouching down in front of him. ''Did you want to kill that man?''

Chad looks deeply confused by the concept of wanting. ''I want what she wants.''

''What if we can help you?'' She proposes. ''We can get your soul back.''

''Whoa, wait, Thea - ''

''We can free you.''

Chad shakes his head. ''Don't you get it? I _am_ free. That's what she does. She frees you.'' He locks eyes with her. ''She could do it to you too. She could free you.''

Thea looks profoundly disturbed by that statement, rising back to her feet and taking a step back.

Dean has officially run out of patience. He grabs the unloaded shotgun from the table, twirls it in his hand to grip the barrel of the gun, and in one swift movement, he strikes Chad across the head. Chad instantly slumps back against the chair, a small trickle of blood running down his left temple. ''What?'' Dean shrugs when Thea sends him a disapproving look. ''I didn't kill him.'' He drops the gun back down on the desk and leans into Chad's space to pat him down, checking his pockets and eventually producing a key on a comically large keychain from his inside jacket pocket. He's going to hope it's a master key. He has a nasty feeling they're not going to like what they find if they go searching through all these rooms, but they need to know what happened to Marlene and Hanna Moretti and Bernadette Weber. At the very least, Mattie deserves answers about what happened to them.

''Come on.'' He nudges the chair with Chad's prone form on it back behind the front desk. ''We need to get a move on. Keep your eyes open,'' he adds. ''If the Wicked Witch of the Pacific Northwest sent one of her flying monkeys here, she could've sent more. Or worse. We don't know what's out there.''

''That's true,'' says a sly voice from behind them. ''You have no idea what's out there.''

Dean whirls around, eyes landing on the woman standing in the doorway to the back hallway. Marlene Moretti. Except...

As long as he has known Marlene (or Sylvia as he knew her) the woman has not once had a single hair out of place. Her appearance is something she prides herself on. Her hair and makeup are always impeccable; she favors crisp, perfectly tailored dresses, and heels. Always heels. He thinks the only time he has ever seen her without her heels are the few times he's seen her pulling weeds in the front yard or when he's caught her on her way back from a jog. Her look is something that's important to her.

She looks different right now. Her hair is disheveled, her makeup is smudged and her mascara is running, her feet are bare, and there is blood splattered onto her pale blue dress. A lot of it. That alone is enough to tell him that she has had a bad night. Then there are her eyes.

They're completely white.

Dean freezes when he sees her, memories of Alastair and Lilith flashing through his head. They're both dead, they have to be, but if this is a white-eyed demon, they're fucked.

Thea tenses when she sees Marlene, but tries not to let her nerves show. ''That…'' She takes a few steps back. ''That's a nasty case of cataracts you've got going on there, Marlene.''

Dean hurries to grab her hand and yank her behind him roughly, ignoring her startled gasp and the sharp look she sends him. ''That's not Marlene.''

The thing wearing Marlene's body like a cheap suit grins and snaps her fingers together. ''Well, give the boy a Kewpie doll,'' it says with a wide, bloody grin. ''Maybe you're not as dumb as you look.''

''Wow,'' Thea bites out. ''Are all monsters as pleasant as you are?''

Dean throws his hand out to keep her from moving out behind him and hisses out a warning of, ''Stop it.''

She moves to grip his arm but thankfully doesn't try to push it away. She does ask, nodding toward Marlene's ruined dress, ''Whose blood is that?''

A smile uncharacteristic of Marlene Moretti stretches across her face. ''Wouldn't you like to know.''

''Thea,'' he says. ''I need you to get out of here.''

Predictably, she protests. ''No.'' She shakes her head. ''No way.''

''We had a deal,'' he reminds her. He moves his hand down, slowly grabbing a hold of her hand. ''I tell you to run, you run.'' He feels her stiffen beside him when he slips the master key to the rooms into the palm of her hand. ''I'm telling you to run.''

''Oh, please do,'' Not Marlene says. ''Run on home to big sister, sweetheart. Don't worry about a thing,'' she winks. ''I'll be sure to leave the body somewhere she can find it.''

Thea bristles, but Dean sees her close her fist around the key. She meets his eye, hesitant. She looks back over at the bloody thing grinning at her, tightening her lips. ''Are you really going to just let me leave?''

It laughs a little. ''I'm not interested in you, Thumper.''

Thea glares, but it lacks any real heat. ''You better know what you're doing,'' she whispers in Dean's direction before she backs up, toward the door. He watches impatiently, biting back the urge to tell her to hurry up.

The Marlene imposter waves brightly and as soon as the door closes behind Thea, it looks over at Dean and asks, seriously, ''Do you have a quarter?''

He blinks. ''What?''

''A quarter,'' it repeats. ''Do you have one? It's too quiet in here. It's giving me the heebie jeebies.''

He stares at in disbelief. ''No.''

It frowns, put out. ''You really are useless.'' It shakes Marlene's head at him and then moves over to the unconscious Chad, digging around in his pockets until it finally manages to produce a quarter. ''She's a sweet girl,'' it says conversationally, heading over to the jukebox in the corner. ''Very pretty. Sure likes you.''

He doesn't move from his spot. He doesn't reach for his gun either. ''Sometimes.'' He does risk looking out the window for a split second. He can just see Thea heading up the stairs to the second floor of the motel. He needs to stall long enough for her to check the rooms. He can do that.

''She'd make a wonderful doll,'' the thing says, flipping through the selection of songs. ''So fun to play with.''

He ignores the chill running up his spine. ''You touch her, and I will end you.''

It chooses a song, pressing the button with an audible click before turning to face him, amused. ''Don't be so touchy.'' The opening strings of Frankie Valli's Can't Take My Eyes Off You filters through the old jukebox. The music coming from the ancient looking thing sounds tinny and muffled but the monster still smiles. It curls Marlene's lips up into a surprisingly soft looking smile and does this unnervingly childlike little spin, enough to make the bloody blue dress flare out.

It's extremely unsettling.

''Music,'' it practically purrs out. ''One of the only things you insipid creatures got right.''

Dean raises his eyebrows, mildly stunned. ''Can't disagree with you there,'' he admits. ''You should listen to Led Zeppelin.''

''Led Zeppelin,'' it hums in contemplation. ''I'll remember that.'' It looks at him closely, squinting those inhuman white eyes at him, but it makes no move to attack or even to move closer to him. ''You're not afraid of me,'' it points out, curious. ''You should be. But you're not.''

He laughs humorlessly. ''You think you're the first white-eyed demon I've met?'' He asks, and then scoffs. ''Please. Honey, as far as scary goes, you don't even rank top ten.''

The expression on the thing's stolen face darkens and it scowls. ''You think I'm a demon?'' A huff of indignation. ''How pedestrian. Demons are nothing more than common fools.''

That throws him for a second. He tries not to let it show, mentally running down a list of creatures that have white eyes. ''Then what exactly are you?''

''Stronger than you,'' it says. ''That's what I am. I can kill you with my thumb. You should show me some respect.''

Boldly, he smirks. ''Where's the fun in that?''

''You sure are making a lot of trouble.''

''Ditto.''

It regards him silently for a moment, gliding over to the chair that holds the unconscious Chad. For a second, Dean's concerned that the thing might wake Mr. Soulless up and tell him to attack. It doesn't. It just rests Marlene's hands on the back of the chair and says, casually, ''If you're not careful, she's going to take more than your little bird.''

He refuses to rise to the bait. He nods at the body it's in, raking his eyes over the bloody dress. ''Marlene still alive in there?''

''Marlene is perfectly safe,'' it says. ''She's with the others.''

''The others?''

''They're in my nest,'' it declares proudly, with another bloody smile. ''Do you want to join them? Do you want to see my nest?''

''…I'll pass, thanks.'' He still has no idea who or what this unnamed, unidentified monster is, but one thing has been made glaringly clear during this exchange. ''You're the one taking the souls.''

It sneers, taking Marlene's kind face and twisting it into something cruel. ''And circle gets the square.''

''What happened to Marlene's daughter? Did you take her soul too?''

It doesn't answer the question, not even with a taunt, but he notes that the cocky smirk falters. Over in the corner, the song ends. White-eyed Not Marlene cuts its eyes over to the jukebox when the music stops, seemingly agitated by the silence. It fishes another quarter out of the pencil cup on the desk and rushes back over to the jukebox. Huh, okay. Not a fan of the quiet. He's not sure if that's a characteristic of this particular species of nightmare or if it's just a personality quirk of this specific freak.

When it turns away from him briefly, he looks out the window. As quietly as possible, he shuffles himself away from the window and closer to the monster. ''You got a corporeal body?'' He questions, but doesn't let it answer the question. ''I'm thinkin' not. I'm gonna go ahead and guess Chad over here was your original transport?''

It doesn't look up from carefully going over the selection of songs. ''I don't think his name was Chad,'' it says, before pressing a button. It pauses, listening to the song it picked. It apparently decides the song is acceptable because it leaves the jukebox behind, gliding over to Chad. She checks his pulse and then drags one of Marlene's blood red fingernails down his cheek. ''He was no carnival ride,'' it says. ''Junkies never are. It's like overripe fruit. But he was just a means to an end. I've got a better ride now.'' It places both hands on his cheeks, almost tenderly. ''He's outlived his usefulness,'' it says, and then all tenderness is abruptly replaced by brute force as the thing snaps the poor guy's neck in one swift movement. Then it turns to face Dean and asks, casually, ''What is this? This music?''

''It's... Earth, Wind & Fire,'' he says, clearing his throat. ''Band from the 70's.''

''Oh.'' It nods thoughtfully. ''What genre would you call this?''

''I don't know,'' he says. ''Disco?''

''Disco,'' it muses. ''I'll have to look into that. I don't mind this.''

He bites back a snark-filled recommendation of the Bee Gees. ''Let me get this straight,'' he takes a step toward the thing, trying to avoid looking at the lifeless body slumped in the chair. ''This was Marlene's punishment? She tries to run and gets turned into one of your playthings?''

''Among other things.''

''And this is what you do?'' He arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. ''She sends you out when she needs a soul sucked, you deliver her a body, and she does some witchy mind meld and turns them into a sharp object?''

''If you want to simplify it.''

He lets a slow, mocking smile crawl onto his face. ''You're her pet.''

It balks at the suggestion. ''Excuse me?''

''You're her pet,'' he says again, louder this time. ''Instead of cleaning up the mess she made with the Moretti family herself, she sent you here to do it.''

''It's a mutually beneficial partnership,'' it snaps.

He laughs. ''You can go ahead and act like you're hot shit if that makes you feel better, but you're just like him,'' he nods at the body in the chair. ''A mindless attack dog.''

For a moment, it looks like it's going to rage. Anger flickers in its expression, mouth tightening, but it doesn't attack. It looks down at Marlene' hands, flexing her fingers. ''Do you know how long I've been in this body?'' It turns the hands over to inspect the chipped nail polish. ''Long enough to figure out how to handle the curves. This is a strong body. Full of power. She'll last longer than the others. She'll make a good weapon.'' It looks up at him, smiling. ''But so would you.'' It moves in his direction slowly. ''Dean Winchester. I've heard all about you and the things you've done.''

Dean resists the urge to back away. ''Always nice to meet a fan.''

''You're cute,'' it says. ''You and your bluster. It's adorable, really.'' It lowers Marlene's voice into a nasty little contemptuous whisper. ''I could just eat you up.''

He eyes the distance between him and both exits. He could probably make it out the front door but he doesn't want to lead this thing straight to Thea. There's no way in hell he'll make it out the back when it's standing right in front of the exit. That leaves one option: stay and fight. Except he has no idea what this thing is, what its powers are, or what can hurt it. He'd also prefer not to hurt Marlene, if at all possible. ''Thanks for the offer,'' he says, going for a cocky smirk. ''But I'm married.''

The thing snarls at him, lip curling threateningly, and he moves automatically, reaching for his gun. He's fast, but he's not fast enough. He manages to draw the weapon, but the thing in Marlene's body, whatever it is, is unnaturally fast and unnaturally strong. In the span of what seems like a single breath, the creature has crossed the room and slammed him up against the wall. His back hits the wall so hard that it knocks the wind out of him and he drops the gun. He groans, struggling to catch his breath as pain shoots up and down his back.

The thing in Marlene's body grabs his face with one hand, trailing the other down his chest suggestively. He clenches his jaw and tries to turn his head away from the thing but it's too strong. ''I don't think she would mind,'' it whispers. ''If I brought you home instead of Marlene. I don't think she would mind. I bet your body is all kinds of strong. And she _really_ doesn't like you.'' It lets go of his face and moves both hands to his chest, running Marlene's hands all over him.

''You know,'' he tries to chuckle. ''I think I'll skip the nightmares.''

It laughs at him. ''It's funny you think you have a choice.'' It presses Marlene's body into his, which feels so incredibly wrong considering neither he nor Marlene have given any sort of consent here. ''Oh, don't worry,'' the thing says, as if it can read his mind. ''This body is very physically attracted to you. I don't think she would care if I have some fun.'' It giggles, sliding it's hands up to his neck, and then his throat. ''It's not like it would be your first time, would it? You know what it feels like to be consumed,'' it murmurs. ''Invaded.''

He stills, nausea coiling in his gut.

It leans in far too close for comfort, forcing him to look into its empty white eyes. ''Don't look so scared,'' it soothes, stroking his face. ''This won't be like that. This won't be anything like Hell.'' A wolfish grin. ''I'm going to take care of you.'' There's a flicker before his eyes and he watches as Marlene's pretty features warp and distort as it allows him to see its true face. It's humanoid, almost, but grotesque. Pale, mottled skin and large empty, dark voids where the eyes should be. It's features are shadowed by the long dark hooded cloak but he can see its mouth, opening and closing ravenously, lips stretching into something gruesome that might vaguely resemble a smile. This is new. It almost looks like a shtriga but not quite the same thing. Maybe some kind of bastard offshoot.

The whole slip lasts maybe a second, the image of the thing's true face flashing in front of him like an old television set on the fritz, and then he's just left looking at white-eyed Marlene again. It leans in close to him to whisper in his ear, ''Let's see what you and I can do together.''

Before he has a chance to make some quick witted but ill advised comment, the creature has jolted right into his personal space and pressed Marlene's lips against his. His instant reaction is to shove the thing away from him, but he can't. The second Marlene's lips are on his, an uncomfortable, almost painful cold unfurls throughout his entire body and paralyzes him. It spreads quickly, instantly, like a burst, an explosion of ice in his head, his chest, his stomach, from the top of his head all the way down to his toes. The sharp icy ache is followed by a painful tugging sensation from deep inside his body, as if something is being leeched out of him.

He's had better kisses, that's for damn sure.

The breathless agony and cold only lasts for a few seconds, maybe less, and then there's a voice. ''Hey.''

The thing in Marlene's body startles at the sound of the voice, enough to pull away and loosen its grip on him. Dean slumps to the floor, trying to catch his breath. The pain is gone instantly, leaving only a foggy feeling of nausea behind, but his body feels heavy and bogged down, like he's just waking up from a deep sleep.

''Heads up, Bright Eyes,'' Laurel's voice deadpans, and the second the soul sucker whirls around, she strikes. She smashes the dead houseplant from the counter into Marlene's head hard enough for the ceramic vase to crack apart, sending dirt pouring into the thing's eyes and mouth as the body crumples to the ground. ''You should really remember to watch your six when you're in an active combat situation,'' Laurel says, smiling grimly. ''Trust me on that.'' She looks at it for a second, clapping her hands together to get rid of the dirt, and then she turns her attention to Dean.

She looks like she has made a remarkable - and unbelievable - recovery. She still looks unsteady on her feet, but she's breathing easier, there's color in her cheeks, she's changed out of her bloody pajamas, and she's not vomiting blood anymore, but her appearance here still doesn't make any sense. She had a grand mal seizure. Even with the Motrin and fluids, she should not be well enough to be standing let alone fighting. There is an unfamiliar look in her eyes; a hardness, a certain kind of anger mixed with blankness. If it weren't for her slower than usual movements and the rings on her finger, he'd think he was looking at Siren rather than Canary.

''You good?'' She asks him, but doesn't move to help him, body still poised to attack.

''You shouldn't be here,'' is all that comes out of his mouth, frustrated. He doesn't mean to be so short with her but he nearly had his soul sucked out of him and now his sick wife is willingly walking into traps.

She merely raises her eyebrows at him and replies, easily, ''You're welcome.''

On the ground, the monster laughs, still choking on the dirt. ''Look at that,'' it says, pushing itself back into a strange sort of half standing, half crouched position, one hand on Marlene's bleeding head. ''The number one prize just walked right through the door. Bold of you to come here when you know there's a bounty on your head.''

Laurel laughs and says, quite plainly, ''You're not coming anywhere near me.''

It tenses ever so slightly, balling Marlene's hands into fists momentarily before relaxing and standing up straight. ''I didn't realize you were so arrogant.''

''It's not arrogance,'' Laurel responds, eerily calm. ''It's a fact. I'm just being realistic. If you make a move, I will make your ears bleed.''

''But they're not my ears,'' it says. ''They're Marlene's.'' Its focus seems to be entirely on Laurel now.

Dean uses the distraction to his advantage, slowly reaching for his discarded weapon and hauling himself to his feet. He doubts a bullet will do much to this thing, but just in case. If this thing goes after Laurel, he's shooting it.

''You hurt me, you hurt Glinda here,'' the thing crows, gesturing at the body. It seems delighted that it has apparently found a way around Laurel's threat. ''The Black Canary doesn't hurt innocents.''

Much to the surprise of everyone, Laurel's response is easy, instant, and blunt. ''The Black Canary is dead.''

Dean can't help but look over at her, thrown by the coldness of the statement. It's not a Laurel thing to say.

''Marlene is far from innocent,'' Laurel says. ''She made her choices. She gets to live - and die - with the consequences. That's life.''

He squints his eyes at her. Now that is _really_ not a Laurel thing to say. ''Laur,'' he tries softly, tentatively taking a step in her direction.

She doesn't even look at him. ''You're going to leave this place,'' she orders. ''You're going to crawl back to whatever hidey hole you've been cowering in and you're going to do it willingly. Do you want to know why?'' She takes a step toward the monster and then another, and Dean watches with a creeping sense of unease as the thing actually tenses and backs away. ''I have a message for her,'' Laurel says. ''You're going to deliver it for me.''

It looks cautious, but curious. It is no longer smiling. ''I am?''

''Either that or I kill Marlene and send you back to the lion's den empty handed.''

It cocks its head to the side in fascination. ''What's the message?''

''Tell her she was right about me,'' Laurel says simply. ''Everything she said about me earlier - It was all true.''

''Wait,'' Dean tries to move over to her, but she shuffles away from him. ''You spoke to her?''

''I'm everything she said I am,'' Laurel says, ignoring his question. ''But you know what else I am? Still here, bitch.'' She spits that last part out with a fiery determination, a sudden anger burning in her eyes. ''I will not be intimidated by some Elphaba wannabe too cowardly to show me her real face. If she wants me, she is going to have to come for me herself. Tell her to hurry up. I'm tired of waiting around for her lazy ass.'' She doesn't wait for a response, straightening her posture and slowly inching her way over to him. ''We're going to walk out of here now,'' she says, latching onto his wrist. ''If you take one step - ''

''Yeah, yeah, I know,'' it waves off the threat carelessly. ''You'll make my ears bleed.'' It snickers, leaning against the front desk. ''Awfully brave for an insect. You think you're ready to know the truth,'' it says, voice soft. ''To see her true face. But believe me when I say, you're not.'' Despite the seemingly careless tone of voice, it has noticeably tensed up. It's afraid of her. Of Laurel. It's trying to pretend it's not, schooling Marlene's face into a mask of careful indifference, but it's not convincing. It's scared. And when a wild animal is scared...

Laurel turns her back on the thing to walk out the door, still gripping Dean's wrist tightly. He lets her pull him over to the door, but he tries his best to keep his eyes on the monster. He takes his eyes off it once, just once, just for one second, and it's enough. The second he looks back, he catches sight of that familiar glint, and he realizes a little too slow what it is. He thinks Laurel doesn't notice. He thinks she has her back turned, that she doesn't see the knife, but just as he starts to move, to push her out of the way and raise his weapon, she turns around, shoves him to the side, and screams.

He likes to think he has gotten somewhat used to the sound of her Canary Cry by now but this one is sharper, louder, angrier. It explodes out of her, blowing the creature back and destroying the front office. He covers his ears and does his best to duck away from a direct hit, hiding his face from any shattering glass or flying debris. But there's really no time for recovery. The sound dies down and the next thing he knows, Laurel's got both hands gripping his arm and she's pulling him out of the office and into the cold daylight. She doesn't look back once, dragging him along with her, crunching over broken glass. She doesn't seem all that concerned about the monster. She seems more concerned with trying to catch her breath.

''Laurel - ''

''Keep walking,'' she orders shortly.

He lacks her confidence. Chances are, with that kind of concentrated blast, it's at least down but that doesn't mean it's out.

''We need to get to Thea,'' she says. ''I sent her around back. She's safe, Sam's with her, but we need to get her and get out of here.''

He gives her a few seconds, waiting until they have put enough distance between them and the front office, and then he darts in front of her, preventing her from going any further. ''Laur,'' he says. ''Honey...'' He trails off, lost. He moves his hands to her shoulders and down her arms, looking her up and down, searching for any sign of weakness. She was so out of it when he left her. Weak, exhausted, in pain, she'd just had a seizure, and she was _sedated._ This Laurel in front of him shows little sign of any of that. Her eyes are dulled, maybe with fatigue, her face is pinched slightly like she's uncomfortable, and there's an unusual stiffness to her posture, but that's it. She's moving, she's walking, she's talking, she's saving his ass. She looks fine. She should not be fine. ''What are you doing here?''

''Was that not obvious?'' She smiles. It's a weak smile. ''I'm saving my damsel.'' She doesn't look him in the eye. She hasn't looked him in the eye since she showed up.

''How are you even standing right now?''

''It's a long story.''

''Then shorten it. Are you okay?''

''I'm not the one who was just sexually assaulted by our possessed neighbor,'' she says, crossing her arms. ''What was that thing anyway?'' She's wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, what looks like one of his flannel shirts, and that green canvas jacket of hers that she rarely wears but despite her unexpectedly Winchester-like wardrobe, she still looks like she's shivering under all those layers. When he doesn't respond to her question, she sighs and closes her eyes briefly. ''I'm okay,'' she tells him, finally looking up and meeting his eyes. ''I promise. I'm running on a cocktail of Midazolam, Zofran, Motrin, and a witchy energy boost from Mattie, which is so weird, but I'm good for now.''

Dean is not comforted by any part of that. ''Mattie? What did he - ''

''He gave me some help,'' she says. She pulls something out of her pocket and hands it over to him. It's a small pouch made out of what looks like felt, jingles strangely, and smells overwhelmingly of herbs.

He sniffs at the pouch suspiciously. ''What's in this?''

''Rosemary, lavender, a few drops of eucalyptus oil, and some other stuff. I don't know. Some kind of shell and a feather and a blessed coin. He said he was working with what he had on hand.'' She takes the pouch back from him and slips it into her pocket. ''It's sort of like a hex bag, but it has the opposite affect,'' she says. ''It's temporary. Won't last long. It's all he can do for me. I... I had to get to you.'' There is an earnestness to her voice that hits all the right notes and checks all the right boxes, but there's still something about her right now that is decidedly not Laurel. She's not acting like herself. She doesn't look or sound...right. She's trying, but there's a troubling numbness to her voice and a shadowed look in her eyes that gives her away.

This Laurel - fidgety and awkward, unable to look him in the eye - is not the same Laurel he left behind earlier. Dean swallows hard and looks her up and down once more. A boost of witchcraft energy is one thing. It's not what he's worried about. ''Did you take another dose of Midazolam?''

She doesn't seem surprised or bothered that he's asking. ''No.'' She says it easily and firmly. She looks him right in the eye when she says it. She doesn't flinch.

He doesn't believe her.

She could be telling the truth. After all, it would fit the numbness and the hollow look in her eyes, even the fidgeting, but she would be more...sluggish. Quicker to anger and overly defensive. He knows what her behavior changes look like when she's on something. He knows what his wife looks like when she's high on benzos, just like she knows what he looks like when he's drunk. This isn't it.

But he still doesn't believe her.

Sobriety is a fragile thing. Addicts say what they need to say in order to stay sick.

''You don't believe me,'' she says quietly, stuffing her hands into her pockets. She looks surprisingly unbothered by this. ''It's okay,'' she shrugs. ''I wouldn't believe me either.''

He clears his throat and looks off to the left, to the front office. Everything is quiet. No trace of the monster. He doesn't want to have this talk here. Not here and not now. ''Thanks for the save,'' he finally says, looking back at her. ''You come here alone? How did you get here?'' No answer. ''Do I get to know what's going on, Laur?''

She blinks a few times and then says, ''I didn't.''

He flinches. ''I shouldn't have kept that from you.''

''I shouldn't have brought it up,'' she says, although her voice is low and sounds dull and tired. ''I can't do this right now,'' she says again, before taking in a deep breath. ''I woke up.'' She takes in another gulp of air, removing her hands from her pockets to absentmindedly scratch at the mark on the back of her hand from where the IV line was placed. ''They gave me fluids and Zofran. They wanted me to rest, but I had to get to you. Sam was heading out to look for you and Thea because he wanted you to have backup. I convinced him to take me with him. I just - I had to get to you.'' She's said that three times now. He wonders if she realizes that.

He takes her hands in his and squeezes softly. ''What aren't you telling me?''

She looks down at his hands holding hers. She remains in his grasp for maybe five seconds before she tugs her hands out of his grip, takes a step away from him, and pointedly looks away. ''I had a dream,'' she says. The expression on her face shifts when she says it. Goes from detached to jittery and anxious in two seconds flat. She shifts from foot to foot. Pushes and pulls at her wedding rings. ''While I was under,'' she clarifies. ''I had a dream.'' She shakes her head, shoulders slumping. ''Except it wasn't a dream.'' She looks back at him. ''It was her. She was in my head. My dad said it was just a nightmare. Just from the stress and the drugs. It wasn't. I know it wasn't. I - I don't know how, but she was in my head.''

Her increasingly skittish behavior is not something that fills him with reassurance. The idea that this mysterious evil witch was poking around in her head is even worse. There is zero comfort in that. Just a sick feeling of complete and utter horror and dismay. Although it does explain her behavior. She's not high, she's terrified. She's never really handled fear great. She hates the helplessness of it. ''What did she say?''

''Oh, she had lots to say,'' she says, lips twisting into a small, hollow sneer. ''She wants what's hers.''

''What's hers,'' he repeats, and then realizes. ''Your scream.''

''She's not going to stop until she gets it,'' she warns. ''Even if she has to kill everyone to do it. That's why I...'' She stops. Licks her lips. ''She threatened you,'' she admits. ''That's why I had to get to you. I had Felicity track your phone.''

''You get a good look at her face?''

''No. She...'' Laurel grimaces and looks, for a flicker of a second, queasy. ''I never saw her real face.'' She shakes her head like she's shaking an image out of her mind and schools her features into an impatient frown. ''Look, we don't have time for this. We can talk about this later.''

When she starts to turn away from him, he impulsively reaches out and grasps her elbow. ''Are we okay?''

She softens. It is the first time she has softened. ''If we're not, we'll get there.'' She sounds sure. Sounds like Laurel. ''We're a team,'' she reminds him. ''That hasn't changed.'' She hesitates briefly, then reaches out and touches his chest, the warmth of her hand radiating through his shirt. She offers him a tiny but sincere smile, and then says, ''Now let's get the hell out of here before this spell wears off and I drop dead.''

She looks in the direction of the front office for about half a second, apparently 100% confident that her Canary Cry has rendered soul sucker in there useless - at least for now - and then she brushes past him and walks away.

He has no choice but to follow her.

The oldest part of the Bull's Eye motel is the back part. The original five rooms that aren't attached to the main building back up onto an undeveloped lot full of trees, empty beer cans, and most likely some used syringes. Based off how dilapidated the back building looks, the rooms go unused most of the time. It's where they find Thea, standing in the open door of one of the rooms with a hand over her mouth and nose. As soon as Dean gets close enough to see that her eyes are literally watering from some foul stench, he is able to discern why.

He recognizes that pungent smell. It's like rotting meat, garbage that's been left to ferment outside on the hottest day of the year, and something cloyingly, sickeningly sweet all at the same time. The putrid scent of death is, unfortunately, a smell he is well acquainted with. On a good day, it was the worst part of his former job.

''Okay, so we've got a good news, bad news situation going on,'' is how Thea greets them.

''Two bodies,'' says Sam, poking his head out of the room. ''A lot of blood. It's Bernadette and - ''

That's all Dean hears. He rushes into the rom, pushing past both of them so he can tear inside the motel room. He stops in his tracks when he sees the body face down on the crusty old carpet. Bernadette. The entire room smells like a combination of musty carpet, blood, and decay. Except the body on the ground can't possibly be producing such a powerful smell of decomposition. Dean pulls the sleeve of his Henley over his hand to cover his nose. The puddle of blood Bernadette's lying in doesn't even look like it's had time to dry yet. He crouches down to check for a pulse. She's cold, although not as cold as the body in the front office, and she's in full rigor mortis, but as far as he can tell, she hasn't been dead for long enough to stink this badly. Twelve hours at the most. ''Two bodies,'' he mutters to himself. He turns his head to look at Sam. ''Where's the other - ''

''Bathroom,'' Sam says. ''You shouldn't - ''

Dean ignores this completely, stomping past Bernadette to get to the bathroom. The only thing on his mind right now is Hanna Moretti. He pushes open the bathroom door, suppressing a gag when the overwhelming stench of decomposition smacks him in the face.

He looks at the body slumped in the bathtub. The throat has been slit from ear to ear. The spray from the carotid artery being sliced open has painted the grimy white tile with splotches of red. This body, given how it looks and the way it smells, has been dead for at least a few days. Long enough to bloat. Long enough for most of the blood to drain out of it, staining the clothes and pooling at the bottom of the tub. It's still gray-ish looking for now, but the skin is so pale, so translucent that it's almost see through. He turns his head to look at Laurel and Thea, pointing a warning finger at them and barking out a harsh, ''Stay there.''

Even though it's the last thing he wants to do, he inches closer to the tub. There is an unsettling look on the corpse's face. It's such a distinct, horrific look that he can see the expression even through all the decay. It's like something caught between horror and surprise. Her eyes are wide open in alarm and her mouth is open like she was trying to scream, either in pain or shock or for help. The way her hands are covered in blood suggests she tried to stem the bleeding and apply pressure to the wound. She wouldn't have had much time to do anything, but she still had time to feel fear, to realize that she was going to die and to attempt to live. Unlike the bedroom with it's overturned chairs and tables, the broken lamp and smashed TV, there is no evidence of a struggle in here.

Someone snuck up from behind her while she was bent over the bathtub - cleaning from the looks of it - slit her throat, and then stood there while she bled out, waiting until she stopped moving before posing her body in the bathtub like a gruesome doll. Or a warning. She never even knew what was happening.

Whoever she is.

''Motel maid, I think,'' Sam says, stopping in the bathroom doorway but keeping his eyes off the body. ''I'm thinking wrong place, wrong time.'' He uses his shirt to wipe Dean's prints off the doorknob.

''No,'' Dean shakes his head. He moves back out into the main room. ''They knew the Morettis were going to come here. This was a warning. Do what you're told or else.'' He looks back down at Bernadette's bludgeoned body. Now they know whose blood was on Marlene's dress. It was her mother's.

Laurel, from her spot in the doorway, says, ''Hanna?''

Dean shakes his head. ''Not here.''

Her shoulders sag in relief.

''That's the good news,'' Thea pipes up. ''She's not here. Which probably means she's alive, right? But why kill Bernadette? Why not just take her soul?''

''She obviously fought back,'' Sam says. ''Maybe the attacker had no choice.''

''Marlene's a powerful witch,'' Dean says. ''Mattie's told us that much. Bernadette was her mother. Makes sense she would be just as powerful. Maybe even more so. If she didn't like what they were doing - ''

''She'd be a threat,'' Laurel says.

''A big one.''

''She wouldn't like that,'' she says, nearly in a whisper. ''She doesn't like loose ends.''

He cuts his eyes to her sharply. That is the exact same thing Chad said earlier. Same words, same authoritative tone of voice, even the same vacant expression.

''How did they not notice the dead body in the bathroom?'' Thea asks, the sound of her voice tearing Dean's attention away from Laurel.

''I don't think there was time for that,'' Sam says. ''Bernadette's still got her coat on. Her purse is right next to her. I think they were attacked as soon as they stepped into the room.''

''Okay.'' Thea perches on the edge of the bed, looking pensive. ''So Marlene decides she doesn't want to be part of this anymore,'' she says. ''Fuck her husband and his brother, her priority is her kids. Except we have Mattie and there's no way she's leaving without her son. She brings her mother and Hanna here to lay low while she comes up with a plan.''

Dean's eyes follow Laurel as she wanders away from him and reluctantly crosses the threshold into the room, winding her arms around herself protectively and staying far away from the body of their former neighbor.

''But Siobhan's one step ahead of them,'' Thea goes on, ''and she's already placed her people here. We can assume Marlene was the first one in the door so she's the one that gets de-souled and possessed. Not Marlene goes after Bernadette, and Hanna... What?''

''Runs,'' Sam says easily. ''Bernadette put up a hell of a fight. Maybe part of that was to give Hanna time to escape.''

''Then she could be anywhere. We're right near the docks. The bus station. If she ran - ''

''She didn't run.''

All eyes go to Laurel. She bends down to pluck something that has been wedged between the wall and the television stand right beside the front door.

Dean recognizes what it is as soon as he sees it. ''Is that - ''

''Part of an insulin pump,'' Laurel confirms. She picks up a small black backpack from behind the open door. She unzips it and fishes out an inhaler. ''Hanna didn't leave here willingly.''

The fake front desk manager. It had to be. Even without that thing in him, he still had his orders. Dante is not a natural witch and with Bernadette dead, Mattie gone, and Marlene possessed, Hanna would be the only born witch left. And this woman has made it clear that she has plans for the Moretti witches. He looks at Thea, still perched on the bed, grimacing from the smell. ''You sure you checked all the rooms?''

She nods, certain. ''Every last one.''

''She has to be here.''

''Whatever's possessing Marlene,'' Laurel says. ''It must have stashed her somewhere when you two showed up.'' She puts the inhaler and the pieces of the broken insulin pump back in the backpack and zips it up. ''What about the laundry room?''

''Checked there,'' says Thea.

Sam asks, ''Did you check that old car in the front lot?''

''The Pontiac?'' Thea shrugs. ''I looked in the windows.''

''Okay,'' he says. ''But did you check in the trunk?''

.

.

.

The Hanna Moretti that Dean has come to know over the years is...well, not Hanna Moretti at all.

He knows Heather Denton. Heather, Hannah, whatever she wants to be called is a short, bubbly blonde with a cherubic face and Bambi eyes. She's eighteen now, although she still seems much younger both in looks and personality. She's always had an unflinching kindness to her, but she's shy. She can be nervous and fidgety. She's never been overly outgoing and extroverted the way her parents and brother are.

They throw their barbeques in the summer, invite people from work and school and the neighborhood, and she sits at the back of the pack with her grandmother, avoiding conversation.

He's never noticed any friends either. Her brother would bring friends home; groups of loud and obnoxious teenagers stomping up the front path, laughing and making the kind of smarmy comments that you only think are clever when you're a teenager and think it's cool to be pretentious. Hanna's never had that. She didn't have any obnoxious friends who trampled her mother's flowers and ate all the frozen pizza in the freezer. In fact, she actively seemed to avoid most people.

She's clearly close with her brother and she was her grandmother's shadow, but she was never gregarious and social. He wonders now if she really is shy or if she's just not as comfortable with the lie they've built.

Every afternoon, she walked home alone from the bus stop two blocks away, head in a book, earbuds in, and every day her grandmother greeted her from the front stoop. Every single day. If Dean happened to look out the window and see her walking by then he knew it was exactly 4:15pm.

There was a dog once. It was a grouchy mean old thing that used to growl and snarl and snap at everyone but Hanna. It was ancient and walked with a limp. Hanna used to sit out on the front stoop with her book during the summer Dean and Laurel moved into the neighborhood. She would sit there for hours with the same book and the dog's head in her lap, scratching behind its ears.

The dog died shortly after Christmas that year and Hanna never sat out on the front stoop again. It took Dean a long time to realize that the reason she sat out on the stoop that summer was because the dog was too old and frail to go for walks but she wanted it to be able to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy its last summer. Hanna is a sweetheart. A little mawkish and perhaps too timid for her own good, but sweet.

He gets the feeling she's been coddled by her family for most of her life. Whether that's because of her health issues or her status as the baby of the family, he doesn't know, but they all always have one eye on her. It's a recognizable set up. It's a tiresome cliché, Dean knows, for a man to automatically compare every young woman he meets to his daughter, but it's hard not to notice the striking similarities between Hanna and Mary.

Dean wants this girl to be okay. She's a liar and a witch, yeah, okay, but above all else, she's a kid. Her eighteenth birthday was in July. She hasn't even graduated high school yet. Her whole life is waiting for her.

Which is why it is so gut wrenching to open up the trunk of that old Pontiac and find her sprawled out in the trunk, motionless. She's ghostly pale, bleeding from the head, there's a piece of duct tape over her mouth, and her wrists and ankles are bound. Other than the head wound, which mostly looks superficial, there aren't any visible marks on her. He doesn't know if she suffocated, if the wound is worse than it looks, or if she had an asthma attack, but she's so pale and still.

''Hanna,'' Laurel's voice murmurs, right before she shoves him out of the way to get to the girl. ''Oh god, Hanna, sweetheart.'' She peels the duct tape off Hanna's mouth and grabs her face in her hands while Dean pulls his pocketknife out to cut away the bindings on the girl's wrists and ankles. ''Wait.'' Laurel's eyes widen slightly as her fingers trail down to Hanna's neck. ''Dean,'' she looks over at him. ''She has a pulse.''

.

.

.

 _On a sunny morning, Laurel wakes up in her old bedroom at her grandparents' house. This is very strange when you consider the fact that she has not lived in this bedroom since she was twelve and that her grandparents haven't lived in this house since she was twenty-four._

 _Also, they're dead._

 _Yet here she is._

 _1172 Sassafras Drive. Home. This is not a dream. This, she knows. This, she is sure of. She knows dreams. This is something else. Laurel crawls out of bed and looks around the room. Everything is how she remembers it. The walls are painted a soft lilac color. There is an army of stuffed animals on the bed. There are Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls posters plastered on the walls. Wonderwall is playing on the boom box, there are VHS copies of My Girl, Cinderella, and Jumanji on her bookshelf, and she knows that if she opens the bottom drawer of her desk, she'll find VHS copies of Waiting to Exhale and Clueless that her Aunt Natasha smuggled over to her._

 _She remembers this. She remembers home. She used to love living here. Her grandfather used to think it was hilarious that she, Laurel, lived on Sassafras Drive because sassafras is a type of laurel. He used to call her ''my little sassafras'' and she laughed every time because he laughed every time._

 _She's missed this place, this room, this home. She's missed it for a long time. Everything here seemed so simple. This was before depression, before panic attacks, before loss and trauma. She associates this place with innocence. She's aware that she has romanticized this time in her life, but when she thinks of the years she spent living at her grandparents' house, she thinks of the kind of innocent happiness that comes along with being a child. She thinks about how she hasn't felt that kind of uncomplicated joy since she was twelve years old._

 _On the boom box, Wonderwall ends, replaced by Fleetwood Mac. Her mother's favourite. Laurel closes her eyes and wonders, maybe, if the world will shift back to normal when she opens them. She loves this place, but this isn't right. She shouldn't be here. When she opens her eyes, she is still twenty years ago, and Stevie Nicks is still singing about the chain. She looks down at her outfit. She's still wearing her old baggy ripped SCU t-shirt and shorts and she's still covered in blood. Gross, but honestly probably better than her pajamas from 1996._

 _She looks at her reflection in the mirror on the back of her closet door. A few minutes ago, she was in 2016. The last thing she remembers is agreeing to be sedated, the pinch of the needle, and the feeling of the Midazolam kicking in. Now she's here. Healthy and unburdened._

 _Slowly, unsure of what exactly is on the other side, Laurel approaches her bedroom door. Nothing jumps out at her when she opens the door. She creeps through the hallway and heads for the staircase. It's when she's inching down the creaky stairs that she hears is. The music is playing in the kitchen too. She can hear it wafting through the house from that old radio Grandma kept in the kitchen. There is a voice singing along. She knows that voice. She's spent so long missing it._

 _She stops on the stairs, gripping the banister, breath caught in her throat. This isn't real. This can't be real. Her feet move on their own, hurrying down the stairs, body automatically guiding her through her grandparents' house until she reaches the kitchen._

 _There he is._

 _He has his back to her, he's still singing along to Fleetwood Mac, he's flipping pancakes, and he's alive. He's alive. Laurel stands frozen in the doorway, staring. She can't decide if she wants him to turn around or if she just wants him to keep singing. Something wells up in her chest and her throat; this primal, visceral thing._

 _''Tommy?''_

 _He turns around to face her with a smile, and it's him. It's the same smile, the same sparkle in his eyes, same everything. ''Hey,'' he grins at her, that old familiar grin. She doesn't know how she's managed to refrain from bursting into tears. ''You're awake,'' he says, cheerful, happy, at ease. ''Hope you're hungry. I couldn't decide between pancakes and waffles so we're having a big breakfast.'' He laughs, motioning toward the heaping plate of waffles next to the plate of bacon and the pitcher of what looks like freshly squeezed grapefruit juice on the table. She barely notices the waffles or the juice or the smell of freshly brewed coffee or the vase of daisies in the middle of the table._

 _Tommy laughs again and it's three years ago and they're pulling his body out of the rubble. That was the last time she ever saw his face. Dean and Sam were the ones who pulled the body from the wreckage. He wasn't a priority for the rescue workers that night because he was already gone and resources needed to be saved for people who were still alive. But Dean wouldn't leave without him. Or couldn't. She's not sure which. Tommy didn't look broken. He didn't look dead. He just looked like Tommy. She never saw him again._

 _He seems to notice the tears welling up in her eyes because the cheerfulness is quickly replaced by concern. He abandons the half cooked pancakes, flipping the stove off and putting the spatula down. ''Laurel?'' He steps over to her and takes her hands in his. ''What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost.''_

 _She wants to laugh. She stares down at his hands holding onto hers. ''How,'' her voice cracks. She looks up at him slowly, half expecting him to be gone, fading from her imagination. ''How are you here right now?''_

 _''What?'' He tilts his head to the side, confused. ''What do you mean?''_

 _''You...'' She stops. She looks around the kitchen. Everything looks exactly the same as it did when she was a kid. The same tablecloth on the table, same ancient cookie jar on the counter, trinkets lining the windowsill, hand sewn floral curtains that the bright sunlight shines through in the mornings. Even the plates set out for breakfast are those same ones with the ugly green and blue pattern on them. The kitchen is wildly dated, but it's home to her, from the blue tea towels to the magnets on the fridge._

 _Tommy has never been in this kitchen._

 _He wouldn't know where anything is. Nevertheless, here he is, making breakfast, bringing out those little salt and pepper shakers shaped like Santa and Mrs. Claus that Grandma always put out, even when it wasn't Christmas, the creamer shaped like a cow, working the ancient coffee maker that nobody but Grandpa could ever work. Tommy exists here like it's somehow his. Like this is his home. It's not right. It's not factual._

 _''You can't be here,'' she says._

 _''I can't?'' He seems amused by that. He gets this teasing look on his face like this is all a big joke that she's forgotten she's in on. ''I'd let you make breakfast, but we both know that's not a good idea.''_

 _''Tommy,'' she whispers. She doesn't want to say it and have all this collapse around her. ''You died.''_

 _He doesn't look shocked by this. He softens and she watches the smile slip off his face. ''Laurel,'' he squeezes her hands in reassurance. ''Where do you think you are right now?''_

 _She doesn't understand at first. She has been dead before. She knows what it looks like. She knows where she'll go. The afterlife, her afterlife, is sunshine and a lake, an old farmhouse with a veranda, a big garden for her to tend to, and Henry. It's not this. But then she thinks..._

 _It would make sense if it was. It would make sense for her Heaven to be Grandma and Grandpa's house on Sassafras Drive with the floral curtains, the Spice Girls poster, the salt and pepper shakers, Fleetwood Mac, and Tommy. It would make sense if it all came back to him. ''I'm...'' Reluctantly, she pulls away from him. She looks around the comforting nostalgia of the kitchen. She thinks of how safe and loved she felt in this home. Then she thinks of Mary. ''No.'' She shakes her head. ''No, I can't be. I just came back. I just came home.''_

 _Tommy says, ''I'm sorry.'' He doesn't say anything more._

 _''That's it then? I'm dead again?''_

 _''You're with me.''_

 _She wants him to say something else. She wants him to tell her that this is a dream. That she'll wake up. That she can go home. She loves Tommy. She always will. He made her life so much more just by being in it and it's less now that he's gone. There will always be an empty place at her table for him. But she has a child. She has a family. She already left them once._

 _Tommy inches his way into her personal space until he is close enough that she can feel the heat coming off his body. ''Haven't you missed me?''_

 _''Of course I've missed you,'' she murmurs. ''You have no idea how much.'' She leans into him, resting her forehead against his. She tries to be okay. If this is the afterlife, she tries to find the peace that should be here. She feels guilty for thinking it but this feels so wrong somehow. ''I can't leave,'' she whispers shakily, pulling away. ''I'm not ready.''_

 _''I know how you feel,'' he says. ''I wasn't ready either. I understand how hard it is to leave them. But everything's going to be okay.'' He smiles at her again, that same boyish smile she remembers, and he wraps his arms around her in a hug. For a second, she melts. She closes her eyes and allows herself to relax into his embrace because it's Tommy. It's been so long. Above all else, he was her best friend and she's missed him. He carried pieces of her that no one else can touch. He knew things about her that she's never even told Dean._

 _When you love someone, they take a part of you with them when they go. She has been an incomplete puzzle for years now. ''You'll be safe here with me,'' Tommy tells her. ''We can be happy. There's no hurt here. There's no pain. We can just have this.''_

 _It would be so easy to give into that. It would be so easy to stay._

 _''Tommy,'' she murmurs, but can't bring herself to pull away. ''I - I have a family.''_

 _He is the one who ends up drawing away, placing his hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes. ''They'll be okay,'' he says. ''They'll survive.'' It sounds...oddly callous for Tommy._

 _''I can't,'' she insists. ''I have to get back. I'm sorry. I love you.'' She smiles weakly. She can't describe how it feels to say that to him. Those three words have weighed her down for years. That was the last thing he said to her and she never had a chance to say it back. He knew, she knows he knew, but it feels good to say it. To make sure he hears it. ''I love you so much,'' she says. ''But I can't stay here. You know that. I have to get back to Mary. I... I don't want to die.''_

 _He looks at her for a second, expression unreadable. Then he huffs and steps away from her. It's not the expected reaction. It feels wrong. She feels like Tommy would be proud of her for saying that with such conviction. He's not. He looks almost irritated. ''Don't you?''_

 _''What?''_

 _He looks unconcerned with the hurt he's caused. ''Don't look so confused. You wanted to die before, didn't you?'' He says it so easily. He says it like it means nothing. ''Don't lie to me,'' he warns. His voice is so uncharacteristically harsh that she reflexively flinches. ''I know you. I know what you've done.''_

 _''What I've...'' She looks around the kitchen. She knows every inch of this place. Except she doesn't. She looks back at him and instantly feels her hurt and her growing terror turn cold. She doesn't know every inch of him either. ''You're not Tommy.''_

 _His lips pull back into a grin. It is not Tommy's grin. ''No. But you knew that already. You just wanted me to be him.'' His entire body language just seems to fall away. He seems taller somehow. Tommy was never this intimidating. This person may have his face, but this is not Tommy. Just like this is not her grandparents' kitchen. And not the afterlife._

 _She squares her shoulders. ''I'm not really dead, am I?''_

 _A laugh. It sounds cruel. It doesn't fit with the man she loved. ''You're sleeping.''_

 _''So this is a dream?''_

 _''This is...'' There's a pause and then the person wearing Tommy's face smiles that fake looking smile again. ''A meeting. I thought it was about time we had a chat.''_

 _Oh._

 _It's her._

 _Laurel doesn't say anything. Not because she has nothing to say but because she's too angry. She can feel that clawing in her throat, that pang in her chest. If she opens her mouth, she will scream. She watches the witch casually move around the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee and sitting down at the table like nothing's wrong._

 _''I've been calling you,'' the witch says, still wearing Tommy's face, still smiling his smile._

 _Laurel clenches her fists. ''Calling me,'' she echoes flatly._

 _''You and I,'' the witch says, ''We have a connection. Can't you feel that?'' She gestures to the other seat at the table, but Laurel doesn't move. ''Come on,'' the witch prods. ''You can't tell me you haven't noticed. That little nagging tug inside? That bone deep ache? That's me, sweetheart.''_

 _Laurel unclenches her fists slowly. ''The nightmares,'' she whispers. ''That was you?'' Her only confirmation is a smile. ''Why? Why are we connected?'' The only thing she gets in return is a shrug. She narrows her eyes. ''Who are you?'_

 _''A friend,'' is the answer given._

 _She can't help the short burst of incredulous laughter that rips from her throat. ''A friend,'' she says. ''This is how you treat your friends?''_

 _''I gave you life,'' the witch snaps._

 _''I woke up underground,'' Laurel spits out. ''I had to claw my way out of my grave. I have scars on my hands from my own fucking casket slicing through my hands.''_

 _''You're being dramatic.''_

 _''Fuck you.''_

 _Tommy's lips split into a wide grin._

 _Laurel has to look away. She crosses her arms and tries to distance herself from this whole thing. ''Is Siobhan your real name?''_

 _''I've had a lot of names over the years,'' the witch says, taking a sip of the imaginary coffee. ''You can call me that, if you'd like. I was going by Elle before this. I've also gone by Alice and Katherine in the past. And Dorothy. I'll tell you, that one was not my favourite. You can call me whatever you want,'' the witch shrugs. ''Take your pick. Names don't matter all that much to me.''_

 _''What's your real name? Actually, better question: What's your real face? Are you ever going to show me?''_

 _The expression the witch puts on Tommy's face is strangely gentle. Almost pitying in a way. ''You're not ready for that.''_

 _Laurel laughs again. She's going for mocking this time. ''Please,'' she sneers. ''Don't be patronizing. This isn't about shielding me. This is about protecting yourself.''_

 _Tommy's face darkens into something she's never seen before on his face and never wants to see again. ''You want me to look like someone else? That's fine. I can change it up.'' The witch smiles, perfectly pleasant, and Laurel watches as Tommy's face wobbles and twists unnaturally, shifting into someone else._

 _She tries not to react. She tries to keep it together, but she can't help the automatic reaction. Her mouth opens and she takes a step back, immediately darting her eyes away from the person sitting in front of her._

 _''Is this better?'' Her grandmother's voice asks her. ''Does this hurt less?''_

 _Laurel doesn't answer._

 _''Sit down,'' Grandma's voice orders, stern, no room for argument._

 _Laurel, programmed to respond to that voice without question, sits down. She ignores the nausea gnawing away in her stomach. Out of spite and bitterness, she looks right at the witch across from her. She thinks her hands might be shaking, she knows her cheeks are burning, and it hurts beyond words to have to look at her beloved grandmother's face like this, but she is not going to cower. If this Hocus Pocus reject expects her to be afraid then she is going to be disappointed._

 _Fear is earned._

 _In her life, Laurel has been beaten, abused, kidnapped, degraded, mocked, bullied, talked down to, and finally, murdered. She was thrown away like yesterday's trash. This twisted psychological warfare is nothing._

 _''That's better. Now,'' the witch says calmly. ''Let's talk about this like adults.''_

 _''Talk about what?''_

 _''This spell,'' she says. ''It's draining you. My fault.'' She raises Grandma's hands in apology. ''I never should've trusted that family of idiots to get the job done. Bernadette Weber was one of the most powerful witches of her time. I expected better from her.'' She takes another sip of the coffee. ''But it doesn't matter now. It's already done. The only thing that matters is that I can fix it.''_

 _Laurel chews on the inside of her cheek. ''How?''_

 _''By giving you your freedom.''_

 _''What does that mean?''_

 _''Right now, the spell is doing something it wasn't designed to do,'' the witch explains. ''It wasn't meant to sustain your soul. It was only meant to sustain your body. If I can get it to do what it was meant to do, you'll feel better.'' Her impression of Grandma is far better than her impression of Tommy. She has her body language, her voice, her expressions, even her mannerisms. It's so hard not to fall into the trap. ''You won't be sick anymore. You'll be stronger. You'll be amazing, Star.''_

 _''Don't,'' Laurel snarls out. ''Don't call me that. You're not her.'' She glares, digging her fingers into her arms. ''You want to take my soul.''_

 _The witch does not disagree. ''I want to help you find peace.''_

 _Laurel wants to laugh at that, but she doesn't have the energy anymore. ''Why would you care about my peace?''_

 _''I don't like loose ends,'' the witch says. There's an edge to what she says that doesn't fit with Grandma's voice. ''You won't be like the others,'' she tries, as if that is somehow a selling point. ''I want you to have more than that. You deserve more than that.'' It sounds sincere, but that might just be the face she's using. ''I can give you peace. I can give you an entire lifetime of happiness. Uncomplicated and unending joy while your soul rests. I can give you Tommy.''_

 _Laurel is almost offended, to be honest. The only thing she's being offered here is a false reality. A fake happy ending. How could anyone think she'd want that? How could anyone think that would be enough to make her want to sign her body over to some as of yet unidentified witch? She drops her gaze down to the table, reaching one hand up to rub at the back of her neck uncomfortably._

 _''Of course, it doesn't have to be Tommy,'' the witch adds on, as if she can sense Laurel's hesitance. ''Maybe you'd rather be with someone else,'' she says, and just like that, Grandma is gone. ''I can give you that,'' Dean's voice says. ''A whole lifetime together, Laur.''_

 _She presses her lips together so tightly it hurts at the sound of the nickname. She refuses to look up._

 _''You and me,'' his voice says. ''We'll live the life we were supposed to have before all this. We'll grow old together.''_

 _The real Dean is out there in the real world, waiting for her to wake up. He wants to live in a house in the woods with her. He wants to live near the water just because he knows she likes it. He wants to raise their daughter with her. Have more kids. Give her a garden. Maybe get a dog. He wants to grow old with her. This illusion of Dean cannot give her anything she wants. What she wants is to go home. That's her life. She doesn't want anything else._

 _She looks up at the fake Dean. ''None of it would be real,'' she says. ''Why would I accept that?''_

 _''Reality is overrated.''_

 _''What about Mary? I'm just supposed to leave her behind?''_

 _''Mary will be fine,'' the witch says. Her impression of Dean leaves something to be desired. ''She has her father, doesn't she? He's been her primary parent for her entire life. Think of this as a win/win. You get to live a happy life. Mary gets to be with a parent who can actually care for her.''_

 _''I'm her mother.''_

 _''Sure.'' A slow, very cold smile stretches across Dean's face. It doesn't look anything like him. Doesn't sound much like him either. ''But not much of one, are you?'' The witch pauses for a moment to look Laurel over. Then she switches tactics. ''I think you're a lot more like your mother than you realize.''_

 _Laurel stares back, unimpressed._

 _''You knew,'' the witch says. ''You always knew that you were going to be a terrible mother, but you brought that little girl into the world anyway. Because you were lonely. Because you knew Dean was going to leave you and you needed something to force him to stay with you.''_

 _''What?'' Laurel can't help but rear back at that. ''No,'' she says, adamant. ''No, that's not why I - ''_

 _''You were right,'' the witch smirks. ''What kind of a mother are you now? You're just some barely there ghost, haunting their lives, complicating things, getting in the way, either too busy or too broken or too sick to be a parent.''_

 _''That's - That's not true.''_

 _''Isn't it?''_

 _Laurel looks away from her grandmother's face and moves her gaze to the salt and pepper shakers on the table. Or tries to. She looks at the spot where they were sitting only moments ago, and there's nothing. No vintage salt and pepper shakers. No cow shaped dish for the coffee cream. All the food that was on the table is gone. The coffee cup the witch was just drinking from has disappeared. The table is empty. She looks up at the witch, into Dean's vacant eyes._

 _''Look at the choices you've made,'' his voice says. ''You put yourself in harm's way knowing you had a daughter at home. You made enemies. You created a dangerous life for her.'' It's not him, she knows it's not him, it's so clear that it's not him, but this is still his voice throwing her greatest fears back at her. It's hard to ignore that. ''And you chased that danger right to your grave,'' says the witch. ''Whether you want to accept it or not, the truth is that Black Canary was the choice you made to leave them.'' The witch stands up, towering over her in Dean's body. ''Did you ever truly stop wanting to die?'' The witch circles Laurel slowly, staring down at her in disgust. ''Or was this whole delusion of heroism thing just you committing suicide so slowly that no one noticed?''_

 _Laurel slouches farther down in her seat. On the counter top, that decrepit toaster that Grandpa refused to get rid of until it caught on fire blinks in and out of existence and then disappears altogether. There is a laugh from behind her, her husband's laugh, and then the witch leans in closer to her from behind. So close that Laurel can smell that familiar coconut shampoo. Dean does not use coconut shampoo._

 _But Sara does._

 _Her shoulder slump._

 _''Let's talk about your stint as the Black Canary,'' her sister whispers in her ear. ''Remind me again how long you lasted. A year, was it?'' About fifteen months, actually. ''One year before you got skewered. Another thing you did to yourself. God, how pathetic.'' Sara - no, no it's not Sara - laughs. ''In the end, your misplaced arrogance was what killed you. You ever think about it?''_

 _Yes. All the time._

 _''You think you were some kind of hero?'' The witch who is not Sara drifts into Laurel's line of vision. ''What difference did you make to this broken city? You and your ridiculous little mask and your sad little suit. You really thought you meant something?'' She scoffs. ''You didn't. Think you proved that last April, didn't you? You walked into that prison with nothing but your self-righteous recklessness and your shitty combat skills and all you got was dead.''_

 _''Are we nearing your point?'' Laurel meets Not Sara's eyes and holds her cool gaze. ''Or do you just like to hear yourself talk?''_

 _The witch laughs. She seems to get a real kick out of that one. ''You were asking for it,'' she says. ''Do you know that? What you were - What you are is a failed experiment. Might as well start over. Wipe the slate clean. This world is not for you. So let me give you a better one.''_

 _''While you do what with my body?'' Laurel manages to muster up her own harsh smirk. ''This isn't about my peace. You want the Canary Cry.''_

 _''I want,'' the witch hisses, ''what's mine.''_

 _''I am not yours.'' Laurel rises to her feet. She ignores the way the table and chairs flicker in and out. ''How do you know all this about me?''_

 _The witch somehow looks surprised at that. Like she expected Laurel to have it all figured out by now. ''I've been watching you,'' she admits. ''I've been behind you every step of the way for a long time.'' She says this almost as if it is a kindness. ''I knew what would happen to you one day. I knew we could help each other.''_

 _Laurel cocks her head to the side. She looks at her sister's face. She tries to look past the surface, beyond the eyes she knows, to the person underneath the mask. All she sees is Sara. ''Why are you doing this? Why go to all this trouble? You're making an army of soulless people. You're bound and determined to get my scream. Why? What do you need all this for?''_

 _''This is a dangerous world, Laurel,'' the witch says with a chuckle. ''Every woman needs a good security system.''_

 _''Oh, bullshit.'' Laurel rolls her eyes. ''You need me for something.''_

 _It's the wrong thing to say._

 _The other woman, leaning casually against the kitchen counter, glowers. She looks impatient. She looks over at the floral curtains slowly fading out of existence. She's quiet for a long time._

 _There is a creeping feeling of dread tickling the back of Laurel's neck, sending shivers down her spine, making her heart drop into her stomach. The air around her seems to be thinning, growing colder and colder somehow, until she can see her breath in little smoky wisps in front of her. Something tickles at her bare feet and when she looks down, there is grass growing out of the floor. She looks up, watching her grandparents' kitchen slowly begin to fade away. A harsh, freezing cold wind is whipping through her hair and she can no longer smell coffee and bacon. And then she's not in the kitchen anymore._

 _She's outside, in the dark, alone in the graveyard they put her in. She whirls around when she feels something brush past her, but there's nothing there. Just her own grave. Untouched and intact. It's a cruel little trick. Putting her here. Although fairly unoriginal._

 _''I've known people like you before,'' the witch says from behind her._

 _Laurel sighs heavily. She turns around and finds herself staring at...herself. She looks at the mirror image of herself for a moment, looking at the bloodstained and ripped blue dress, the dirt streaked hair, the bloody, wounded fingers, the pale skin and dark circles under her eyes. She's not shocked by this trick. This is how she imagines herself all the time. This image is hard to shake. She's been home for two weeks and she still hasn't been able to get away from this night. ''People like me?''_

 _''People so broken and so hollow inside that they can't tell up from down, right from wrong, dead from alive. So fucked up that you can't even see all the destruction you've caused or how much better things would be without you.'' The witch is clearly expecting more of a reaction from that, but she's not going to get one._

 _If she wanted a reaction, she should've chosen a different face. Laurel has heard all of this before from her own voice. She has chronic depression, probably some super low self-esteem, and she had a nervous breakdown. She's said and thought a lot of nasty things about herself._

 _''You numb yourself with drugs and alcohol because you can't take the pain and you don't even care about how it affects your family,'' the witch sneers. ''Do you think Dean enjoys being your caretaker? You think he likes having to scrape your sorry ass off the floor? You think he likes having some useless lump for a wife? Do you honestly think he doesn't feel resentful sometimes? You're a drain, and you know it.'' The witch inches closer. ''You act like you're okay, but you're not. You know you're not, you know you never will be because you can't be. It's not how you're wired.'' She twists Laurel's face up into something cruel and sadistic._

 _The things she's saying are probably supposed to sting more. They're probably supposed to be breaking her. All Laurel can think is that she hopes she doesn't look like this wicked when she's talking. She hopes she's not this much of a patronizing asshole._

 _''All that pain,'' her own voice coos out, ''and it's turned you selfish. All you care about is yourself. What's good for you. How to fix your hurt. How to make yourself feel better. How to feel, even for a second, like you matter because deep down, you know you don't.''_

 _Laurel stares at her doppelganger. ''Do you think you're telling me something I don't know? Do you think giving my depression a voice is going to – what? Make me give in?''_

 _''You keep making these selfish choices,'' the witch shakes her head. ''You keep hurting everyone around you, pulling them into your brokenness, dragging them under the water with you because you're scared to be alone. How is that fair? What a burden you must be to them. Even now. You know Dean is going to do everything he can to save you. No matter the cost. You know that and you could stop him, you could save him, but you don't want to die so you're just going to let him bury himself. You're going to let him do all the work and walk into dangerous situations and eventually, honey,'' a bloodthirsty smile crosses her lips, ''he's going to walk straight into me. Is that what you want?''_

 _''If you touch him - ''_

 _''What? What will you do?'' The other her taunts. ''Listen,'' she leans in close. ''Here's a piece of friendly advice: Do the right thing. Turn yourself over. Don't let me hurt him. Stop me, Dinah Laurel. The Black Canary is dead,'' she says, nodding to the grave. ''Let her rest. You're not a hero. Not a martyr or a saint. You're sick. You've always been sick. Sooner or later, you have to cut the sickness out before it can spread. The only way to save them is to leave them.''_

 _Laurel offers up a rueful smile. She ignores the shiver running down the back of her neck. ''All this just to get me to turn myself over to you?'' She licks her lips. ''I'm flattered. Really.'' She looks back at her grave. There is a smiling picture of herself on the headstone. She looks happy. ''What if I'm not as weak as you think I am?''_

 _''Oh,'' the witch laughs. ''I'm not worried about that. You will come to me eventually.''_

 _''How can you be so sure?''_

 _The witch smiles once again, almost serenely. She doesn't answer the question but she takes the last step forward, reaching one hand out to grasp onto Laurel's arm. She leans in close, her breath unnaturally cold against Laurel's neck, and she whispers, over the strange sound of buzzing that starts quiet and then begins to grow louder and louder with every breath the witch takes, ''I'll be seeing you, Canary,'' and then the buzzing noise grows deafening, everything goes white -_

 _\- and Laurel wakes up._

.

.

.

There is still blood on the bedroom floor.

That is all Laurel can think when she steps into her unnervingly quiet and empty house. Her blood is still splattered all over her bedroom floor. She should clean that up before Mary gets home. It's not something anyone needs to see. Except her hands are already red and raw from scrubbing blood and she's so tired. She feels like she could sleep for a thousand years and still feel exhausted upon waking. She's going to assume that means whatever Mattie did to her is wearing off. Not unexpected. A witchy Red Bull seems like way too easy of a fix for this particular issue.

The house is calm when she steps inside. Nobody runs to greet her, the television isn't on, there's no music playing, she can't hear their crappy washing machine thumping away from all the way on the other side of the house. The quiet is out of the realm of normalcy for her family. It's uncomfortable. She has forgotten how to live in quiet.

Sam is the one who winds up taking her and Thea home. He doesn't stay long. Just long enough to drop them off and ask her no less than four times if she's sure she's okay. He'd stay longer, he says, but...

She assures him she understands and ushers him out the door because he has things to do. He's going to go burn a body. After Dean rushed Hanna off to the hospital, everyone was left scrambling to come up with a way to handle this. Eventually it was decided that all traces of the Moretti family needed to be wiped from the Bull's Eye motel. It was a big production. Fingerprints were wiped, security cameras were lifted, and Bernadette's body was moved. The motel maid, the real front desk manager, and the soulless man - They have families. People who love them and presumably would want to know what happened to them. Their deaths need to be called in.

Nobody liked what they had to do today. Her father was incredibly bitter about it. John seemed sickened by it. She can understand their reactions. They're honest men. She thinks, on a better day, she would have felt sick over it too. She mostly just felt tired today. She felt surprisingly desensitized. She never expected to be down on her knees in some sketchy motel, scrubbing her neighbor's blood while her brother in law cut up the carpet and rolled the body of her dead neighbor in it, but that's what happened today. That's her life. Not what she thought her life would be like, but none of this is what she thought her life would be like.

Life rarely happens the way you think it's going to.

Four years ago, in November of 2012, her biggest hurdle was that she had a two week old daughter who never slept, she couldn't figure out breastfeeding, and her hormones were out of control.

Now she's cleaning up other people's blood, she has some kind of destructive superpower, she had some kind of weird dream that wasn't a dream where her apparent arch nemesis tried to fuck with her head, and she's recently come back from the dead via witchcraft after being brutally murdered.

Also, she's dying.

Definitely didn't see any of that coming.

She wishes she could go back to four years ago. She'd much rather be dealing with a crying infant and engorged breasts. At least there's a light at the end of that tunnel.

After Sam leaves, she's mostly on her own. Thea keeps looking at her nervously like she's afraid she's going to drop dead at any moment - which, to be fair, is not an entirely unfounded concern - but she's also busy fielding phone calls, trying to stay updated about the current situation, and trying to get a hold of Dean.

Laurel is able to slip away pretty quick, ducking down the hall to the laundry room. She methodically fills up a bucket with warm soapy water and grabs a sponge.

It's a strange feeling to be actively dying.

Last time this happened, she was drugged. Death didn't really register the way it should have. She knew. Somewhere deep down, she knew. She just wasn't really capable of feeling much other than a quiet longing and fear that was buried underneath sedatives and painkillers. Actually, come to think of it, she's drugged this time too, isn't she? And she honestly doesn't feel as much as she should. She feels like she should be feeling...more. More pain, more anguish, more fear. Just more. She mostly feels numb. Maybe a little feverish. And she's majorly craving a Xanax. Or three.

Laurel hauls the bucket of water down the hall and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She sets the bucket of water down on the ground and then proceeds to stare at the splatter of blood on the ground. She doesn't think she has the energy to clean that up right now.

With a heavy sigh, she sinks onto the edge of the bed and looks down at her hands. They're trembling. They've been trembling ever since the motel. She looks over at her reflection in the vanity mirror. She doesn't look good. Her face is still bruised from the fight yesterday afternoon and she's sickly and sallow looking. Haunted, would be one way to describe it.

If she lies down and tries to rest, will she wake up? Will she get to see her daughter again? She feels like those thoughts are overdramatic. She is not going to die. Someone will figure out something. She should be thinking positively. It's just so hard not to let her mind go there.

The last time she saw her daughter was last night. Mary wet the bed. She was so embarrassed and so upsettingly mad at herself. She kept saying, ''I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I promise.'' Laurel kept assuring her it was no big deal and Dean kept telling her that no one was mad and that everything was okay, but Mary was so upset that she just cried. Laurel stayed with her until she fell asleep. Sang Sea of Love and rubbed her belly. She figured she would gently reiterate that accidents happen today. Now she might not get the chance.

She looks away from her frail reflection. She frowns down at her shaking hands. Nothing is finished here. She's not finished. She feels like she's barely done anything since she came back. She hasn't spent enough time with her father. Her relationship with her mother is in tatters. She and Sara haven't had any real meaningful conversations because they've both been tiptoeing around each other, half afraid to even look at each other in case the other disappeared. She and Dean have been quietly inching toward possibly talking about having another baby - and they also have a brand new issue to deal with his lying. She promised Mary she wouldn't leave. She promised her that yesterday.

She looks at the pictures on top of the dresser. The photographs tucked into the vanity mirror. She's always done her best to keep this house inundated with pictures. She wanted Mary to be able to look back and remember. Now she can't help but notice that she's not in a lot of them. In this room, there's a picture of her and Mary on her nightstand and a picture of her, Sara, and all their cousins from when she was about seven years old on the vanity, half hidden by a picture of Dean and Mary, but that's about it. She doesn't even have wedding pictures the way other people have wedding pictures. They didn't have a photographer. There's only about three pictures in existence. One of them is of Laurel, taken after the ceremony. She still had on that flower crown that Iris made her and she had put her big cable knit cardigan on over her wedding dress. And she was laughing. She doesn't remember what she was laughing about, but Dean snapped a picture of her on his phone. It's still his favourite picture of her. It's also the picture they put on her gravestone.

It's in Mary's room now. Framed and on her dresser. It didn't used to be, not back in April. Dean must have put it in there sometime after...

It's good that Mary has that picture.

She still wishes there were more of her and Mary together. Parents don't think about that. They're so busy capturing pictures of their child that they forget to think about what their kids will have left when they're gone. Mary will not have much. A few pictures but not enough, memories that will dull around the edges with time, and an uncontrollable scream inside of her that may or may not be triggered at some point in her life.

In the end, that's really all Laurel will leave behind for her daughter. Doesn't seem like much.

She rises to her unsteady feet. She searches through the drawers of her vanity, then moves to her dresser, and then her nightstand. She manages to scrounge up a yellow legal pad and a pen. She sits down at her vanity and scratches the words Dear Mary at the top of the page. Then she stops. What can she say? What is there to say beyond _I love you more than words can say?_

Mary is four years old. Her entire life is laid out before her, and there is a chance Laurel could miss all of it. Even if she survives this, she could still die at any moment. She used to think about that from time to time. She had a will. She planned out all the logistics. But she never thought about the emotional repercussions of her death. About what Mary would go through. She never thought about all the things she would miss. She didn't want to. Now she can't stop.

It's November. If she dies, she'll miss Christmas. Sara's birthday. New Year's. Dean and Thea's birthdays. She'll miss first days of school, birthdays, graduations, weddings, scraped knees, heartbreaks, grandchildren. Everything. All of it.

How does she fit everything she won't be around to say into one measly little letter?

Laurel puts the pen down and stares at the yellow paper until her eyes blur. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. She's not going to die anyway. She's just getting herself worked up for nothing. There are other things she should be doing right now. She should call Dean for an update on Hanna's condition. Figure out what the hell that soul sucking thing in Marlene's body is.

There's a soft by forceful knock on the door and Laurel jumps, turning her head just as Nyssa pokes her head into the room. Laurel quickly flips the notepad over and attempts a smile. ''Hi,'' she greets. ''You guys bring Mary home?''

''I did,'' Nyssa says, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. ''Charlie is...'' She pauses, blinking. ''Helping Sam.''

Oh, right. The body burning. ''That's...'' Sounds like a fun family activity. ''Very selfless of her.'' She clears her throat. ''Um, how was Mary? Did she sleep much after Thea dropped her off?''

Nyssa lips turn up into a half amused, half annoyed smirk. ''Not a wink.''

''Oh,'' Laurel nods. ''Wonderful.''

''She's had a morning,'' Nyssa says. ''We ordered room service and she cried because her bacon was touching her pancakes. Then she cried because we told her Aida was sleeping and couldn't play with her. She did like the Jacuzzi in our hotel room,'' she says. ''And the robes.''

''Yes, she likes luxury,'' Laurel says, and then deadpans, ''She gets that from her father.''

''But then she cried because we made her get dressed instead of bringing her home naked.''

''Well, who doesn't prefer to be naked really?''

''Charlie bought her a book of stickers,'' Nyssa tells her. ''She seems quite taken with them. She's currently calm.''

Laurel chuckles. ''She does love stickers.''

Nyssa doesn't say anything else but her gaze darts around the room and when she spots the blood on the floor, she stills.

Shit.

Laurel gets to her feet as fast as she can - which is not very fast at this particular moment in time - and rushes to block the blood. ''I - I meant to clean that up,'' she says. She bends down to grab the sponge from where it's fallen to the ground and has to bite back a hiss of pain when a searing pain practically bowls her over. It's right where her scar is. She does try to hide it, but given that her current companion is Nyssa, attempting to hide anything is futile.

''Laurel,'' Nyssa snaps out, voice firm and commanding as always. She steals the sponge and none too gently pushes her down to sit on the bed. ''You should be resting. I will clean this up.'' She frowns over her shoulder at the bucket of soapy water. ''Cleaning up blood takes more than soap and water,'' she points out. ''You need bleach.''

''Oh,'' Laurel says tonelessly. ''Right. I knew that.'' It's not like she's just spent hours scrubbing blood or anything. She rubs at her side absently and then shakes her head with a frown. ''Rest won't help me,'' she mumbles. She lifts her eyes to look up at Nyssa. She looks so strangely cautious standing there with her hands clasped in front of her, looking at her with a mixture of sadness and trepidation. ''You know.''

''I've been informed of the ongoing situation,'' Nyssa says crisply. She doesn't push any further. Doesn't ask any questions. She doesn't expect anything. It's a relief.

Laurel cocks her head to the side and looks at her for a moment, trying to study the look on the other woman's face. As usual, Nyssa remains inscrutable. ''Can I ask you a question?''

Nyssa arches an eyebrow. ''Always.''

''Do you know how I died?''

The question appears to catch Nyssa off guard. There is a split second of anguish in her eyes before she hardens her features and says, ''I do.''

Laurel nods thoughtfully. She hadn't meant to ask that question so abruptly. She hadn't even meant to bring this up right now. There's a good chance she probably wouldn't have ever brought it up. But she's running on borrowed time, you see. ''Do you think...'' She pauses. ''If I'd had more training - ''

''It would not have mattered,'' says Nyssa. She doesn't look surprised by the question, but she does look mildly annoyed that such a question is necessary. ''What happened to you had nothing to do with your training. He used magic. He could have taken any one of you.''

''But he chose me,'' Laurel says. She has thought about that a lot since coming back. The fact that Damien Darhk picked her. Deliberately chose her to slaughter. How do you not think about that? A megalomaniac douchebag chose her to be his victim. She was marked for death the second he stepped into town, the moment he chose her father to manipulate and blackmail, and she didn't even know it. She spent months dying and she didn't even realize it. It's hard not to wonder if there was something about her that made her an easy target. Especially after everything that's happened today. ''It was always going to be me. From the very beginning.''

''Yes,'' Nyssa says simply. ''It was. That does not mean it was _about_ you. He wanted - ''

''To punish my father and Oliver,'' Laurel says. ''I know. I spent my last night on earth being dehumanized and turned into a pawn in some game where the rules kept changing.'' She laughs, even though it's not funny, because how can she not? It's an utterly ridiculous scenario. Being murdered for literally no reason other than to make the men in her life feel bad about it. Except it's not that ridiculous. It's her reality. ''I know that it's not my fault,'' she says lowly. ''I know that. It's just sometimes I wonder.''

''If you could have stopped him?''

''If maybe Oliver's right.''

Nyssa seems to find that concept extremely amusing. ''One thing I have learned about Oliver Queen in the time we've spent together over the years is that he is rarely right. He may try, but he is not the most luminescent candle on the candelabra.''

Laurel lets out a small, stunned laugh. ''I suppose that's one way to put it. I guess I'm…'' She shrugs. ''I'm still trying to make sense of everything. Maybe I just want there to be a reason for what happened. And you have to admit, if someone with Oliver's training or Sara's training had been in my position that night...'' She runs a hand through her hair in a fruitless attempt to fluff up her limp hair. ''I don't know. What if he knew I was the weakest? Maybe I made a mistake.''

Nyssa narrows her eyes. She doesn't seem to like where this is headed. ''With what?''

''With this. With all of this.'' Laurel will admit that she doesn't think she would have been thinking any of this yesterday, but yesterday seems like it was another lifetime ago. Before that witch brought all those nasty little insecurities right back to the forefront of her mind. ''Becoming Black Canary. Maybe I wasn't cut out for it.''

''Laurel,'' Nyssa's voice is hard and sharp. She sounds exasperated and her expression has darkened considerably. '' _I_ trained you.''

Laurel snaps her jaw shut, slightly intimidated by the harsh fervor in Nyssa's voice.

''Your husband trained you,'' Nyssa continues. ''Ted Grant trained you. Are you suggesting we are all somehow inferior to Oliver Queen?''

''No! No, of course not.''

''You have been taking self-defense classes since you were fourteen.''

''I know that.''

''You have a background in gymnastics.''

''I don't understand what you're - ''

''You're fit. Healthy. Young. You have training. You have firsthand knowledge of the violence this city is clogged with. You have been trained by _experts_ in their fields. You were _ready_ ,'' Nyssa says fiercely. ''There will always be room for improvement and I admit that you do not always move as fluidly as you could - I believe due to the restrictions of your suit. Leather is an unforgiving fabric. You should have known that. …But you were more than ready.'' She looks completely and utterly incensed that Laurel is even bothering to question herself. ''I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am for what you've been through, but I will not sit here and listen to you question not only yourself but my capabilities as a teacher.''

''I wasn't questioning your - ''

Nyssa doesn't let her finish. ''Has Oliver said something to you?''

''No. He didn't say anything to me.'' Laurel doesn't offer more of an explanation. She's not sure how to explain that a witch infiltrated her mind. She gets the feeling Nyssa would not be overly shocked to hear such an outlandish tale because Nyssa has undoubtedly seen some shit, but she doesn't want to talk about it. Not with Nyssa, not with Dean, not with anyone. This is hers to unravel right now. She's aware that it was an attempt to get under her skin, to lower her defenses and illuminate her vulnerabilities, but aside from that was it a warning or an introduction? This witch wants to turn her inside out and ruin her so bad that Laurel willingly turns herself over to her. But that's not all this was. The purpose of today's invasion seemed to be to size Laurel up. Determine her worth. Figure out what kind of threat she poses.

She's worried about the impression she gave. She's worried she came off as weak.

''You _are_ the Black Canary,'' Nyssa says. ''You have already made that decision. Whether you like it or not, your life changed the moment you put that mask on and you don't get to change it back. You have to work with what you've made now, Laurel. And if you are asking,'' she adds on, voice suddenly soft. ''No, you were not killed because you were the weakest. You were not asking for it.''

Laurel looks up sharply at the sound of the phrase.

''You didn't ask for any of this,'' Nyssa says. ''I hope one day you can believe that.''

Laurel chews on her lip. She can feel her ears heating up the way they do when a panic attack is imminent and she's having some minor heart palpitations. She can't afford to have a panic attack right now. It's a waste of time that she might not be able to get back. She slips off the bed and sits on the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest to try to keep herself from spinning out completely. ''If this had happened a couple years ago, I don't think I would've minded,'' she admits quietly. She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jacket. ''I think I even would've welcomed it.'' It's not as hard to admit that as it used to be. Not when it's just her and Nyssa. Nyssa is unwavering. That's her thing. She doesn't falter. When the words slip through Laurel's lips, Nyssa doesn't move to comfort her nor does she look shocked or judgmental. ''But now... I don't want to die.'' She smiles wryly. ''I guess that's progress, right? Too bad it came too late.''

Nyssa is quiet for a moment. She looks deep in thought. ''I was against you when you brought Sara back,'' she finally says, which... Okay. Seems like an abrupt change in topics, but okay. ''I thought your actions to be selfish, ignorant, and cruel.''

Laurel raises her eyebrows. ''Seems kind of harsh to tell me that on my deathbed, but that's fair.''

''The Lazarus Pit makes monsters,'' Nyssa says grimly. ''It comes with risks I was not willing to take back then. I didn't want her to be anything but Sara, _my_ Sara. I was so angry with you.''

Laurel fights the urge to grimace. She would say she tries not to think about what she did in Nanda Parbat but she would be lying. She thinks about it all the time. Nyssa was thrown into a dungeon, Thea was attacked, her father almost put a bullet in Sara, and innocent women were murdered by Sara's hands, which is something Sara still struggles with to this day. All of that happened because of a single choice Laurel made. People died and people suffered because she just couldn't let go. ''You have a right to that anger.''

''Yes,'' Nyssa says, ''I do. But that was not my point. I was angry about what you did to Sara. But... Then I come here and I look at her.'' She pauses, allowing a soft smile to flicker on her lips. ''You brought her home. She now exists in present tense once again. She lives. More than that, she _thrives_. That is all I have ever wanted for her. You did that.''

That makes it sound far nobler than it actually was. ''You were right the first time. I was selfish. I couldn't live without her.''

''I had thought your loved ones would feel the same about you,'' Nyssa says, with an undeniable sharpness to her voice. ''They all spoke your name with such reverence while you were gone. Imagine my surprise when I learned none of them were willing to bring you back home. Not even Sara.''

''Uh.'' Laurel blinks. ''Thanks for reminding me of that?''

She gets what Nyssa is saying and she'll admit it would have been nice to have been a priority, but she's not going to hold it against anyone. Besides, Dean did try to bring her back. He couldn't. It's not that simple.

Last year, after she brought Sara home, a few days after Sara left town to go find herself, Laurel had this massive panic attack. The worst one she'd had in years. She wound up spending the entire weekend in bed, physically and mentally depleted, and scared that if she got out of bed, she would drink. When she was finally able to verbalize what was wrong, that the weight of what she had done had caught up to her, that she wasn't sure she made the right decision, Dean said, ''I would've done the same thing. Sara would've done the same thing for you.''

Laurel was quiet then. She stayed silent for a long time before she laughed softly, shook her head, and said, with absolute certainty, ''No, she wouldn't have.''

It wasn't Sara's burden to bear. She was not Sara's burden to bear.

''Laurel,'' Nyssa says, voice curiously soft. ''I sought to fix their mistakes.'' When she doesn't get the reaction she'd been preparing for, she asks, carefully, ''Do you understand what I'm saying?''

Laurel hasn't moved. She feels like she should be scrambling to her feet and staring wide-eyed, but she literally cannot move. It's like her body has just clammed up. Her mouth doesn't work either. Her heart is in her throat. She couldn't possibly speak. Of course she understands what she's saying. She just doesn't know what to do with it.

''There have always been rumors of another Lazarus Pit,'' Nyssa reveals. She sounds startlingly unruffled by this. ''Several of them, in fact. For the past few months, Charlie and I have been searching for them.'' There is no hint of apprehension in her voice. No regret, no hesitance. Just a calm sense of what sounds like complete certainty. ''For you.''

''For...'' Laurel still can't make sense of this. Charlie, sure. Makes sense she would go looking. She loves Dean, she loves Laurel, she's an ardent fixer, and she is constantly searching for her next quest. But Nyssa? Nyssa, who is morally opposed to the Lazarus Pit? She didn't even want to use it for Sara, her beloved, her supposed soulmate. ''Why?''

''You were my friend.'' It's said easily, as if that one little sentence is enough to explain why she was willing to risk everything to find another magical resurrection koi pond. ''You _are_ my friend. Perhaps I felt I owed you.''

''Nyssa,'' Laurel frowns. ''You don't owe me anything. You know that.''

Nyssa looks unsurprised by that declaration, but uncomfortable nevertheless. She averts her eyes, gaze landing on something behind Laurel. A small smile teases on her lips and then she looks back to Laurel, straightening her posture. ''Then I suppose I am selfish,'' she says, unapologetic. ''I could not live without you.''

Laurel doesn't trust herself to speak. She hadn't been expecting that. She hadn't been expecting any of this. She looks over at the photograph that caught Nyssa's eye. It's the one of her and Mary. They're gardening in the picture. Or Laurel is anyway. Mary is two and standing next to her mom on unsteady legs with her sunhat pulled over her head, extending a hand out to Laurel to offer her the single gardening glove she has in her sticky little hand.

When she stayed with them briefly back in 2015, Nyssa had admired the garden. She used to wake up at a truly ungodly hour and sit out on the back porch to meditate. Occasionally, she joined Laurel for her morning run. Most of the time, Laurel just brought her tea and toast as she was leaving for her run. One morning, a Saturday, Nyssa made a comment about the garden. Complimented Laurel's skills and the patience she must have. Laurel waved it off. ''Oh, it's easy,'' she'd said. ''It doesn't take much. I just like pretty things.''

''Yes,'' Nyssa had said, smirking lightly over the rim of her mug. ''I seem to have a fondness for pretty things myself. They certainly are plentiful in Starling City, aren't they?''

''Nyssa...'' She stops. She truly does not know what to say to her. There aren't words good enough for a situation like this. ''Did you... Did you find another?''

Nyssa falters. ''Not yet,'' she admits. ''But that doesn't mean they don't exist. We've only been searching for them for a short while. Laurel...'' She takes a step closer. ''You are in trouble. I'd like to offer you my help.''

''You - ''

''I know the Lazarus Pit is not the ideal fix,'' Nyssa says. ''But if this spell fails, we can bring you back. I can bring you back. With your permission, of course.''

Laurel licks her lips. The Lazarus Pit is an intimidating prospect. The risks it comes with are...scary. She's watched the after affects destroy Sara and Thea. They were both hurt and traumatized. But they're both _alive_. It's risky, yes, but it's better than being dead. ''Nyssa - ''

''Take some time,'' Nyssa interrupts with a small smile. ''I don't want you to answer me now. You need to think about this. Discuss the option with Dean. With any luck, we will not have to resort to the use of the Lazarus Pit.''

The door to the bedroom goes unceremoniously crashing open before Laurel can even process what Nyssa's saying, before she can thank her, and Mary, still in her pajamas, with Thea hot on her heels, comes staggering through with the grace of a tiny drunk. ''Mommy!''

The sudden - and needlessly dramatic, to be honest - entrance throws Laurel off and by the time her sluggish, probably fevered brain catches up to what's happening, Nyssa has already stepped in to nudge her out of the way and block the blood from Mary's view.

''Moooo-ooo-mmy,'' it's more of a whiny groan than a greeting. It takes Laurel about a second to realize that her daughter needs a nap. She's bleary eyed, red cheeked, and she has a stormy look on her face. She barely seems interested in the sticker book she's holding but she also doesn't seem all that keen on letting go of it if the visible death grip she's got on it is any indication. She throws herself at Laurel when she sees her, wrapping her arms around her mother's leg and wiping her face on her hip. ''Where _were_ you?'' She asks, exasperated.

''I was - ''

''You didn't wake me up!'' Mary tugs at Laurel's shirt a few times and then just snaps out, ''Pick me up!''

Laurel raises her eyebrows at the tone and does not pick her up. ''Excuse me?''

''Uh, yeah,'' Thea says, clasping her hands in front of her. ''I should warn you. She's in a bit of a mood.''

That is decidedly the wrong thing to say to a child who is in a mood.

Mary's face screws up in offense and she throws Thea a truly withering look before shrieking out a rebuttal of, ''No, I'm not! Don't say that!''

''Mary,'' Laurel admonishes. ''Don't be rude.''

''I'm _NOT_!''

''Mary - ''

Mary, who is most definitely in a mood, lets out a whine, stomps her foot, and then asks - no, _demands_ , ''Where's my daddy?''

''He's...'' Laurel trails off in a sigh. ''He's not here right now.''

''I want him to be here. I need him to help me.''

''What do you need him for?'' Thea pipes up, still sounding determinedly cheerful. ''Is it something we can help you with?''

''No,'' Mary responds glumly, before shoving her fingers in her mouth and hiding her face in Laurel's shirt.

''All right.'' Laurel lifts Mary up into her arms and throws a tight-lipped smile in Thea's direction when she catches sight of the worried look on the girl's face. She regrets picking Mary up instantly. Every muscle in her body starts screaming at her and just the act of bending over and then straightening up makes her feel like she's going to pass out, but she pushes through it. ''Let's go get changed, how does that sound?''

Mary's only response is a huff and a mumble of, ''Where's Daddy?''

Laurel sighs. She gently waves off Thea and Nyssa when they move to help, quietly assuring them that she's fine before carrying Mary out of the bedroom and into her room next door. She doesn't know how to explain any of this to her daughter. She doesn't want to tell her that Mom might be dying again. She doesn't want her to know that. She doesn't know how to tell her that the friendly neighbors that they taught her to trust are actually not at all trustworthy. ''Do you remember David and Heather from next door?'' She questions, depositing Mary on her bed.

Mary shrugs her shoulders, but doesn't answer. She takes her fingers out of her mouth and drags a teddy bear into her lap. ''There's a doggy across the street,'' she says matter-of-factly. She flips open the sticker book, peels one off, and puts it on the bear's nose. ''When - When you were gone, he pooped on our grass.''

Laurel looks up from rifling through Mary's drawer and looks over her shoulder. ''Did he now?''

Mary plasters another sticker to her bear's head and nods her head up and down. ''Daddy almost stepped in it,'' she adds on, which makes her giggle. ''But he didn't but Uncle Sammy did.'' She erupts into frenzied laughter, covering her face with her hands. She is definitely overtired and loopy. ''And then he said a bad word,'' she laughs out, throwing herself down onto the bed, still giggling.

Laurel can't help the grin that breaks out on her face. She abandons the task of finding Mary something to wear and sits down on the bed. ''Did your dad think it was funny too?''

Mary nods enthusiastically. ''Then Auntie Charlie said we were silly.''

Laurel laughs. ''Well, you are,'' she says, brushing her hand across Mary's cheek gently. ''You're my silly girl.''

''And Daddy,'' Mary chips. ''Daddy's silly too.''

''Right. He's my silly guy.''

Mary clutches the sticker book to her chest. Maybe they should scrap getting dressed and just go back to bed. Laurel could get on board with that. ''Mommy,'' Mary says. ''Where's Daddy? I need him.''

Laurel doesn't answer for a second. She'd been hoping Mary would just kind of move past that one, but she should have known that would never happen. ''What do you need him for?''

Mary thrusts the sticker book at her mother. ''I wanna put stickers on his face.''

Laurel stares at her. ''...Oh.'' Not really sure how to respond to that. ''Do you...want to put stickers on my face?''

Mary does not look especially warm to that idea. ''No.''

''Daddy's helping the kids from next door with something,'' Laurel tries. She smiles brightly and tries to move past it quickly. ''How about we get you dressed, honeybee? What do you want to wear today? What about your Elsa dress?''

It doesn't work.

Mary blinks a few times, seemingly processing, and then she scowls. It's quite the scowl for such a sweet little girl. She sits up, shoving her teddy bear and sticker book away from her. ''Tell him to come back,'' she orders. Not a request. An order.

''Mary - ''

''He's _my_ daddy,'' Mary snarls, with a startling amount of venom. ''They already got a daddy.''

''Yes,'' Laurel agrees. ''They do, but he's...unavailable right now. Your daddy's helping them.''

''I don't want him to help them.''

''Sweetie, we have to help people who need help. It's the right thing to do.''

Mary rolls her eyes, which seems far more fourteen than four.

''He'll be home soon,'' Laurel soothes. ''Hanna - Or, um, Heather - wasn't feeling well so Daddy's at the hospital with her, but he - ''

''Daddy's at the hospital?'' Mary hears nothing else. Her eyes widen in what can only be described as sheer terror, she goes white as a sheet, and she starts shaking like a leaf. It's an unexpected - and alarming - change in demeanor. It's like a switch has been flipped.

''Honeybee - ''

Mary interrupts her to squeak out another breathless, ''Daddy's at the hospital?'' She starts shaking her head frantically, crawling away from Laurel to climb off the bed. ''Oh no,'' she starts mumbling. ''Oh no, oh no, oh no. No hospitals, Mommy. Please, please no hospitals!'' Then she bursts into tears. Not gut wrenching sobs that wrack her whole body, but messy, tumbling cries and whimpers with tears that immediately well up in her eyes and stream down her cheeks. It's an extreme reaction. At first, Laurel can't quite make sense of it, but then Mary starts crying out, ''I don't want him to be at the hospital, I don't want him to be at the hospital'' and then it all clicks into place.

The last time one of her parents was at the hospital, that parent did not come home.

And here Laurel thought her day couldn't possibly get any worse. For about half a second, she freezes. It's not long, but it's enough. Mary bolts for the door and takes off into the hallway. She is surprisingly fast for a kid with the balance of a toddler. She darts down the hallway and into the living room with Laurel close behind her. Mary makes a beeline for the front door, bound and determined to get to her dad, still crying and shrieking about hospitals.

The front door opens before Mary can reach for the doorknob and she stumbles right into Dean's legs. He looks distracted, but the second he lays eyes on Mary, his entire body just seems to wake up. ''Mary?''

She looks up at him, briefly, stunned into silence, and then she collapses to the ground and starts sobbing. It's like her tiny boy just can't stand up under the weight of her fear. ''Don't go back to the hospital,'' she blubbers. ''Don't go back to the hospital.''

He does not look at all surprised by the meltdown. Even Thea, who pokes her head out of the kitchen briefly to see what's going on, does not look surprised by Mary's reaction. Dean's shoulders sag in this somehow well practiced way as if this hospital phobia has been an ongoing battle, and then he scoops Mary up into his arms and lets her cling to him. He rubs her back, murmuring something in her good ear, and she relaxes. For about a second. Just as quickly, she pulls back and puts both hands on his cheeks to make sure he looks at her. ''No hospitals,'' she begs. ''It's bad. It's a bad place. No hospitals.''

''No hospitals,'' he agrees. ''I'm okay, honeybee. No hospitals for me. I'm going to stay right here with you.''

''Mommy...'' Mary pauses to gulp in a few breaths, rubbing at her eyes. ''Mommy said you were at the hospital,'' she cries. ''I don't want you to go away.''

''I'm not going away,'' Dean says firmly. ''I promise. I promise, baby girl.''

She nods, but she's still pouting, laying her head down onto his shoulder, clinging to his neck. She's still crying, although not quite as hard as she was, and she has turned her eyes away from Laurel. Dean keeps rubbing her back, assuring her once more that he's okay before he cuts his eyes to Laurel. His gaze isn't harsh or angry or frustrated. He doesn't even look disapproving.

She still can't help but wince guiltily. ''I... I told her you were at the hospital with the Moretti kids. I didn't know she had a thing about - ''

''It's okay,'' he says quickly, cutting her off before she can say the word. ''I should've mentioned it. I thought she was over it. She doesn't usually react this strongly.''

''Oh.'' She pinches her lips together and looks at Mary. ''I think she's T-I-R-E-D.'' She reaches out to touch Mary's back. She tries not to take it too personally when Mary flinches away from her touch and clings tighter to Dean, staunchly refusing to look at her. ''I'm sorry, Mary,'' Laurel says, but it doesn't do any good.

''She'll be fine,'' Dean assures her. ''She just needs a minute. Maybe we'll go chill out for a bit and read books in bed. Sound good, honeybee?''

Mary shrugs and whines softly, hiding her face in his shoulder.

He leans down to kiss Laurel on the lips gently. ''Just let me get her calmed down and then we should talk.''

She nods, even though she doesn't really want to talk. Before he pulls away from her, he shifts Mary into one arm and takes something out of his inside jacket pocket. It's a small satchel, not unlike the one Mattie gave her, except this one has an unfamiliar symbol stitched onto the side. ''From Hanna,'' he informs her. ''She and Mattie are...'' He pauses and then glances at Mary. ''They're wrecked about Bernadette and Marlene, but they want to help you. They made that clear to me. Hanna has to stay overnight, but she said this should keep you stable until she can get here tomorrow and figure something out.''

He sounds shockingly hopeful about that, but she's hesitant. She has some brand new trust issues, thanks to the family of liars next door. ''You trust them?''

He looks at Mary, still calmly rubbing her back soothingly. ''I don't know,'' he answers quietly. ''I trust them more than I trust their parents. They seem to want to clean up the mess.''

''The mess being me?''

''The mess being the situation you're in,'' he corrects. ''They're all we have right now.''

She tightens her mouth. She doesn't mention the Lazarus Pit. Not right now. Not in front of Mary. She takes in a breath and then accepts the small pouch. She expects it to feel like the one Mattie gave her. She watched him make that. She watched him crumble up the dried herbs and stumble over his Latin. When she touched it, it was like she had just taken a heavy duty painkiller and washed it down with two giant cans of Red Bull. It was uncomfortable because there was this strange sort of pressure on her chest, a weight pressing against her ribcage, a lump in her throat, but it kept her going. It dulled the ache of her old wound, cleared her head enough for her to be able to focus, and strengthened her enough to convince her father and Sara that she was fine enough to go after Dean.

This does not feel anything like that. The second she touches the soft, shimmery fabric of the satchel, it's like all the pressure is released. The weight on her chest is lifted immediately and for the first time since coming home, she can breathe easy. The cold comes next. It starts in her fingertips and then spreads throughout her whole body. It's like being completely stripped of any and all warmth. The exhaustion is last. Quite suddenly, she feels like she can barely keep her eyes open. It's not a bad feeling. It's even kind of pleasant. It's like being instantly relaxed. There is not a drop of tension left in her body.

Dean's hand on her shoulder feels oddly heavy. ''You good?''

Her fingers tighten around the satchel and she manages a quick, jerky nod. ''I'm fine,'' she assures him, leaning up to peck his lips quickly. ''Go get sticker-faced.''

''What?''

Mary, eyes widening, jerks her head up off his shoulder and looks at him. ''I - Daddy.'' She grabs his face in her hands to make him look at her because clearly this is very serious. ''I got stickers. I wanna put 'em on your face.''

He looks at her for a second, blinking, and then says. ''...O..kay?''

So. Not a thing they've done before then. Just a random weird four-year-old thought. Good to know. Little hurtful to be left out.

''Let's go put stickers on my face then,'' he says with a shrug, and doesn't even try to hide his bemusement.

Laurel smiles and manages to keep it on her face until he's gone, heading down the hall with Mary. She pauses, glancing around the unusually empty living room. Moving with caution, she makes her way over to the couch and sinks down onto the cushions, staring down at the bag.

She's not in love with the idea of opening it up, but the material is mostly see through. She can tell that there are dried herbs - one of them is definitely lavender - and a few pieces of what looks like quartz. There are two symbols drawn on the bag in black marker. She doesn't recognize them. Maybe protection symbols? Or healing ones? Probably protection symbols. There's a medallion in the bag too. She can't quite make out the symbol on the medallion but she thinks it might be a triquetra. Which she only knows because she watched Charmed when she was a kid and because it was a popular tattoo choice among drunk college aged women back when she was a drunk college aged women, but she's also aware that it is a real Celtic symbol with a lot of meanings in the Wiccan world. The medallion boasting the triquetra is about the size of a quarter, maybe a little bigger, and it's warm. Hot even. Weirdly so.

Her instinct is to dig deeper. Figure out what these other symbols are. Make sure that this is helping her and not harming her. Gingerly, she opens up the bag a tiny bit, just to take a quick whiff of the herbs, and then she closes it up again.

Maybe it's best not to question it. She feels good. For the first time in forever, she feels good. She feels like she could actually get some rest.

Her eyes find the cabinet in the corner of the room that houses a record player, her grandfather's record collection and a few knick-knacks that sit safely behind the glass doors. She eyes the vintage Mrs. Claus salt shaker. It was her grandmother's. There used to be a Santa Claus pepper shaker to go along with it, but it hasn't been seen in a long time. She remembers that she used to play with the little salt and pepper shakers when she was Mary's age. She can't remember why - it's not like they're that entertaining - but she was a kid and they were cute. Her Aunt Natasha made sure that Mrs. Claus went to Laurel after Grandma died. She lets out a breath and drops her gaze. Now that salt shaker just reminds her of her dream. Or her hallucination. Whatever it was.

If she rests, if she lets herself fall asleep, is that going to happen again? What else can this woman ruin for her? What else can she take away?

 _You and I_ , the witch said. _We have a connection._

Laurel leans back against the couch, tucks her legs under her, and grabs her grandmother's afghan off the back of the couch to wrap around her shivering body. She looks down at the symbols stitched onto the side of the bag. If they are protection symbols, maybe they'll keep the witch out of her head.

She tries not to think too hard about it. She wants to think about something, anything other than her. But the words keep playing in her head. Over and over again. In surround sound. She sent that monster inhabiting Marlene's body back to the witch with a message; an act of defiance. _Still here, bitch_. She doesn't regret that. Nevertheless, she'd be lying if she said this unknown woman hadn't gotten under her skin.

She runs her fingers over the mysteriously warm medallion and sighs. She should probably stop feeling sorry for herself, get up off her ass, and go help Dean with Mary, but she is really, really tired.

Laurel curls her fingers around the bag, clutching it close to her body, and closes her eyes for a second. Just one second.

When she forces her eyes open, it is not just one second later, she still can't stop shivering, and someone is draping a cool cloth over her forehead. Groggily, she moves her hand up to swipe it off her face because she's already freezing, but a hand latches onto her wrist. ''Laur,'' Dean's voice whispers. ''Babe, it's just me. It's just me. Your fever's spiked. I'm just trying to get it down.''

She blinks sluggishly, trying to focus her bleary eyes on him. She blinks a few more times and turns her head to the side, realizing quite quickly that she's not on the couch anymore. She's in her bed, with all the blinds closed, and she is sweating bullets.

''I should've warned you,'' he's saying, gently uncurling her fist to tug the little bag of tricks from her hand. ''Hanna said this was pretty potent. It's supposed to slow the deterioration of the spell, but it packs a punch.''

''It's a healing and restoration spell,'' another voice says, and Laurel forces her eyelids open again to look at Cas. He's standing on the other side of the room with a lighter and a bundle of sage in his hands. ''It's supposed to pack a punch,'' he says. ''It's supposed to allow you to rest long enough for your body to regain the strength you need to keep up with the spell.''

''Great,'' she croaks out. ''But I don't have time to be Sleeping Beauty.''

''It's just for today,'' Dean tries, tucking the satchel under her pillow. ''Hanna should be released from the hospital tomorrow.''

Yeah, and then what?

She glances over his shoulder briefly at Cas. He doesn't say anything but his pinched expression tells her he's thinking the same thing. Hanna Moretti is eighteen years old. She may have more power than her brother but she's still just a kid. Laurel doesn't bother trying to get up. She tries to wet her lips but her mouth is bone dry. ''Mary?''

''Fine,'' says Dean.

''I don't want her to be mad at me.''

''She's not mad at you.''

''I mentioned the...'' She swallows painfully. She looks over at her nightstand, staring longingly at the glass of water there. Her throat feels so dry that she can barely talk. ''I scared her.''

''She's fine,'' he says firmly. He smiles, but she notes that it doesn't reach his eyes. Carefully, he helps her sit up enough so that she can take a few much needed gulps of water. ''You look better than you did before,'' he tells her, which feels like a lie. She's drenched in sweat, her entire body is shaking, she can barely keep her eyes open, and she has a fever. ''I'm serious,'' he insists. ''You're doing so much better. The fever's nothing.''

''Fevers are generally a good sign,'' Cas adds on. ''It means your body is fighting.'' He moves closer to her, still holding the now smoldering bundle of sage. ''How do you feel?''

''Okay, I guess,'' she says. ''Tired, really tired, and - and kinda cold, but it's not as bad as it was. I'm not throwing up blood. I'm okay.'' She feels like _not vomiting blood_ is setting the bar pretty low for okay, but that's where they're at. She looks at both Dean and Cas and offers up her best reassuring smile. ''Really, I'm fine.''

This is a lie.

''Glad to hear it,'' Cas says. He glances at Dean for half a second, and then he looks back at her. ''Laurel,'' he says, voice suddenly serious. ''I wanted to apologize for my part in keeping your condition from you.''

She sinks back into the pillows and pulls the blanket up, trying in vain to warm herself up. She can feel Dean tense up at the mention of the lie. ''Oh,'' she mumbles, but doesn't know what else to say. She's not in the shape to be talking about this. ''Thank you for the apology.''

Dean turns his head slightly, not quite enough to make eye contact with Cas but enough for him to hear him. ''Didn't Hanna tell you to cleanse the entire house?''

Cas arches an eyebrow, clearly aware he's being kicked out, but doesn't argue. ''Yes, she did.'' He looks over at Laurel and offers her a small smile. ''Please do your best to get some rest today. We can handle things around here.''

She smiles weakly. ''I'll try.''

Before he leaves, he gives Dean a look that she can't quite decipher. Dean's only response to the look is, ''Don't set my fire alarm off.''

Cas leaves the air thick with tension and smelling of sage. Dean stares after him for a long time and then sighs, shoulders sagging, and turns to look at her. He looks guilty. ''Laurel.''

Immediately, she shakes her head. ''Don't.'' She should be mad about the lie. She is mad about the lie. Huge violation of trust and all. But, honestly, she's currently dying and it's very unpleasant. She feels like she's sweating out her entire body weight, she can't get warm, and she is seconds away from passing out. This is not the time. ''When I don't die,'' she says. ''Remind me about what you did. I'll be mad at you then. I don't want to be mad at you now.''

''I'm looking forward to that,'' he says, completely earnest. ''And I'm sorry. Just gettin' that out there. I was a dumbass. If I could go back - ''

''I know.'' She pauses and rubs her lips together briefly. ''We'll be fine, love,'' she says, and means it. She's not going to give him a pass with this forever and she is angry, but one foolish mistake isn't going to take down their entire marriage. That would be dumb. She looks at him closely. She thinks of her dream. She considers the witch's words to her. She feels, for a brief second, breathless. ''Can I... Can I apologize to you as well?''

He looks dumbfounded. ''Why would you need to apologize to me?''

''It feels like ever since I came back, all you've been doing is taking care of me and worrying about me,'' she says. ''I'm sorry for that.''

''Laurel - ''

''I'm not saying it's my fault,'' she cuts in. ''I'm just sorry you've been going through this. I'm sorry you've been holding onto this all by yourself.'' She rolls onto her side carefully and he grabs the cool cloth from her forehead, dabbing at her sweaty neck and chest briefly before pulling it away. ''I'm sorry for a lot of things. I know that it hasn't always been easy being married to me. I know I can be a burden because I'm sick.'' The words pour out, but they don't make her feel better. ''I just wanted to apologize to you for that.''

Dean looks completely confused as to why on earth she's saying all of this. ''Apology not accepted.''

''...What?''

''Don't want it, don't need it, didn't ask for it,'' he says shortly. ''I'm not enabling your self-hatred. We've had this discussion before.'' He doesn't say it unkindly, but there's no room for argument. He's also not wrong. They have had this discussion before. Many times. ''I don't need you to pity me for being married to you and I don't need your apologies,'' he says. ''I wouldn't trade what we have for anything. I'm sorry for a lot of things, but I'm not sorry for the life we have together. You're not a burden. You've never been a burden.''

He sounds so...honest. He believes every word he's saying. ''Okay,'' she whispers. ''Then I rescind the apology.''

''You're damn straight you do.''

''Dean.'' She grabs onto his hand when he starts to get up, holding on tightly. He looks down at her expectantly, waiting for her to say something. She wants to tell him so many things. She wants to ask him if he really believes Hanna will be able to help her, she wants to tell him about Nyssa's offer to use the Lazarus Pit, she wants to tell him that everything will be okay, but she clams up. She can't get the words out. She just keeps thinking about the witch.

Laurel does not believe she's going to die. That's the truth. The mere possibility of dying scares the shit out of her, which she supposes is a good thing, and she knows her family is worried, but her death is not the endgame here. That's not what she was brought back for. Far too much thought and planning went into her resurrection. The witch will not let her die. Death is not the greatest enemy in this fight. That would be too easy. Siobhan, or whatever her name is, is not going to stop coming. She made that clear. She is going to throw everything she has at them until she gets exactly what she wants and what she planned for all this time. Laurel has no idea how to stop her. The only thing she can think of is running. If she packs a bag and hauls ass out of this city, away from Mary and Dean and everyone she loves, at least they'll be out of the line of fire. At least they won't have to see whatever becomes of her.

 _The only way to save them is to leave them_ , she remembers.

She can't tell Dean that. She can't tell Dean any of that.

''Nothing,'' she says. ''Just… You know I love you, right?''

''I know,'' he says, lips curling into a smile. ''And, you know, ditto and all that.''

She snorts and lets a tired but genuine grin break out on her lips.

''Get some sleep, pretty bird,'' he tells her. ''We'll all still be here when you wake up.''

''Hey,'' she says, grabbing at his hand one last time. ''That house in the woods you promised me,'' she reminds him. ''I'm gonna hold you to that.''

He leans down to kiss her forehead, squeezing her hand gently. ''You better,'' he says, and then she closes her eyes, and rests.

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 **end part eight**


	9. Her Body Burns

_AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Gore, body horror, graphic description of panic attacks (including symptoms such as dissociation and depersonalization), mentions of suicide, and there is a mild to moderate emetophobia warning for the entire chapter._

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 **How the Light Gets In**

 _Written by Becks Rylynn_

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 **Part Nine**

 _Her Body Burns_

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There is a natural order to things in the Lance family.

Laurel is the calm.

Sara is the storm.

That's the way it is. The way it has always been. Everything about them goes back to this. It's in their bones. Even when they were kids, they fit the patterns that were made for them.

Laurel was a honeymoon baby. Neither planned nor unplanned, but certainly welcome and so very loved right from the start. She was born on her due date. Not a day before, not a day after, but the exact day. It was a sunny day in April, nine months after their parents' wedding. She came when she was expected to come and she didn't make a fuss. She was ready. She popped right out into the world, calm and collected, ready to conquer the world. She was happily cooing away within minutes of her birth, seemingly so content to be there.

Sara was an ''oops, the condom broke'' baby. Not necessarily unwelcome, but a wrench thrown in the carefully made plans her mother had laid out after Laurel was born. She was born, unexpectedly, on Christmas Day. Nearly an entire month before her due date during a rare Pacific Northwest snowstorm. She came out fast and she came out furious, at home in Mom and Dad's bedroom in that apartment in the Glades before either the midwife or the ambulance she called arrived. She screamed at the top of her tiny lungs, wriggling and wailing, small and sickly, scared and angry at the coldness of the world around her.

That was who they were from the start.

Laurel was the good one. She was kindhearted, responsible, and sensible. She listened when she was told to listen. She said please and thank you. She was a good daughter, a good friend, a good girlfriend, and a good sister. She did her homework on time. She got good grades. She didn't break hearts. She never deviated much from the path she was supposed to take. She got her law degree. She got married. She had a daughter of her own. She did everything she was supposed to do and she did it all with a steady hand and effortless grace.

Sara was the chaotic one. She never did anything she was supposed to do. She fought with people, both physically and verbally. She skipped classes, she ditched every extracurricular her mother tried to put her in from gymnastics to ballet to soccer. She cheated on her homework or didn't turn it in at all. She stole boyfriends and girlfriends and tubes of lipstick and candy bars from the 7/11 near their old apartment and even a pair of earrings once. She was mean, bratty, and callous because she knew she could get away with it. She barely graduated high school, was well on her way to flunking out of college, and then she got on that damn boat with Oliver and their dumbass choice ruined lives.

Laurel became a lawyer.

Sara became an assassin.

It seems so cut and dry when you lay it all out like that. Light and dark, day and night, good and bad, the calm and the storm. But a story is just a story in the end. It's just words. There are things you miss between the lines.

Sara knows that now. She missed it when she was younger. She was too caught up in playing her role; too distracted by her own pain and pleasure and self-pity to notice anyone else's. She never saw what was right in front of her.

It's interesting. What you choose not to see. What you forget. How a story becomes a story.

She slices the stem off another strawberry and adds the piece of fruit to the bowl in front of her. They're not great strawberries. It's November. They're not in season. Peak strawberry season is April through June. Laurel missed strawberry season this year. Maybe she shouldn't have bothered with strawberries in November. She hemmed and hawed over them in the produce section at the grocery store, staring down at the package in her hand for a solid three minutes, debating if she should waste money she didn't have on fruit that was most likely mediocre at best. In the end, she shrugged and added the strawberries to her basket next to the carton of milk and the oatmeal Dean sent her out to buy and the pint of Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream she grabbed on impulse. It's Laurel's favourite ice cream. Strawberries are Laurel's favourite fruit.

She finishes off the rest of the strawberries, salvaging what she can from them and adding every good piece to the bowl. Her fingers are stained red by the time she's finished. She's not even sure if Laurel will be in the mood to eat right now. Last time she checked on her, Laurel was awake but barely, shivering under the covers. She said her head hurt. She said she was craving a cigarette.

''Isn't that strange?'' She'd croaked out with a laugh. ''I can't remember the last time I had a cigarette.''

Sara hadn't said anything in response to that. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know Laurel had ever smoked at all.

There are a lot of things she doesn't know about her sister.

She used to think she knew everything there was to know about her. Laurel wore her heart on her sleeve. She was an unzipped, bare presence; so irritatingly earnest, full of the kind of naked vulnerability that Sara has always run from. She used to think her sister was an open book written in a language she was fluent in.

She was wrong.

Laurel is not an open book. She's more like a dark hallway in a haunted house. You think the halls are empty but they're actually full of ghosts. Sara can't put her finger on the exact moment it all clicked into place for her, but she does remember the moment the unraveling began.

After she came home, after she and Laurel started repairing their relationship, she moved in with Laurel and Dean. It was never going to be permanent, though she knew Laurel hoped it would be, but she wanted to be with her sister. She wanted to know her niece. She wanted to wake up in the morning and see Laurel every day, the way she used to when they were kids, the way it was meant to be, the way it should've always been. She wanted to go home.

She hadn't realized how much things had changed. She knew she wasn't coming back to the life she had left behind. She just hadn't realized how different things were. She knew when she moved in that Laurel was in recovery, that her sobriety was a new thing, and that she had been having a rough time over the past year. Sara had been at that disastrous dinner in February. She knew things had not been good.

When she moved into the house in early March of 2014, she had mistakenly thought that Laurel was all better. Clean and sober and ready to take care of her little sister.

Sara had not yet understood fragility. She does now, but it took time. Understanding is a delicate, often horrifying, thing. It's like unlearning everything you thought you knew. Rewriting a story. Laurel was never, as is turns out, the calm to Sara's storm. She was just the eye of the tornado; the eerie silence and the false tranquility of the devastating force of destruction.

One night, a few days after moving into the guest bedroom, Sara couldn't sleep. Dean and Laurel's cozy house in suburbs was too...peaceful. Too homey and warm and safe and nice. She had forgotten what that felt like. She wasn't used to it. She felt like a kid again, lying wide awake in bed because she was too excited to sleep.

She got out of bed, intent on stretching her legs and maybe getting a glass of water. She crept out of her room and moved silently through the shadows of the darkened house. She managed to avoid every single creaky floorboard and made it all the way to the kitchen door before she stopped in her tracks. Someone was in the kitchen. There was something inside of her telling her to turn around and go back to bed, but she didn't. As quietly as possible, she pushed open the door a crack and peeked in, staying half hidden behind the corner.

In the darkened kitchen, Laurel was sitting on the ground. She had her knees drawn up to her chest like she was trying to make herself appear as small as possible. She was crying. ''I'm sorry,'' she whimpered. ''I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing anymore.''

Her husband - the guy Sara, at the time, wasn't so sure she liked - was standing at the kitchen sink. He looked, in the shadows of the room, exhausted. Maybe even exasperated. On first glance, she thought he was getting a glass of water but when she looked closer, she realized he was pouring something out into the sink. It was a bottle of vodka.

''I know you don't,'' he said, with a gentleness that Sara had not been expecting. ''I've been there.'' He finished dumping the bottle out in the sink, turned the tap on to rinse out the sink, and then sat down on the floor with his wife. ''It won't be like this forever.''

''I'm not having a panic attack,'' Laurel mumbled, wiping at her eyes. ''You don't need to say that.''

''That's not why I'm saying it. I'm saying it because it's true. It won't be like this forever. I need you to know that,'' he said firmly. ''The cravings - ''

''It's not - I don't think... I can't do this,'' Laurel sputtered out, and then released a heavy, tired sigh. ''I'm sorry. I tried. I thought I could. I just - I need _something._ I don't know why. I don't know. I can't _sleep_.''

''I know,'' he said. ''I know it hurts. It's a craving. It feels like shit. You need to give yourself some grace here. You're eighteen days sober. You're still in the thick of it.''

''It hurts too much to do this,'' she declared with a resigned shake of her head. ''I can't do it. I'm sorry.'' She dissolved then. Just broke down into a mess of gulping sobs, covering her face with her hands.

''Well.'' He paused, and then drew away from her. What he said next was not as gentle. ''That sucks for our kid then.''

She pulled her hands away from her face to stare at him, betrayed. ''Don't do that. Don't you dare use our child to guilt trip me into staying sober.''

He sighed in response, running a hand through his hair. ''I'm sorry,'' he said. ''Look, maybe we should revisit the idea of inpatient treatment. This is the third time this has happened this week, Laur.''

That was the moment Sara realized what she was seeing. She feels terrible about it now, but in that moment, her first reaction had been to feel repulsed. Not by Laurel, but by what was happening to her. For all the shit she has seen, all the gore and the darkness and the death, she is not all that well versed in addiction. She missed most of it with her dad. Sure, when she was growing up, he would have a drink or two with dinner or after a rough shift, but he never drank to excess. Even with Laurel, Sara saw very little of it firsthand and it wasn't something they talked about. It was brought up once, the night Sara moved in with them. She asked Laurel how she was doing, if she was going to her meetings, and then she asked her how it had happened. How it spiraled so far out of control.

Laurel told her, bluntly, ''I'm an addict, Sara.'' She said that as if that was all she needed to say. She said that addicts will do anything to stay locked in their sickness because the sickness is the only thing that feels safe to them. ''But,'' she'd added. ''I don't want to stay there anymore. I have a daughter. I wanted to come back to her.''

That was as far as the conversation went. Laurel hadn't wanted to talk about it and Sara hadn't wanted to know more. She told herself it was in the past. She told herself that Laurel had healed.

It's not that simple.

She still cannot adequately put into words how disturbing it was to see Laurel sobbing on the kitchen floor, physically sick because she needed a drink so badly. How horrifying it was to listen to the better Lance sister plead and whimper for a drink. Laurel is supposed to be stronger than that.

It was jarring to listen to her cry, lash out in anger, spit out a desperate, pathetic, ''I need a drink or I need my meds, Dean, but I need something. I have to have _something_. I can't do this. I'm in pain. You can't just leave me alone here in pain.''

It was the first time Sara had ever seen Laurel as fragile. Someone to be protected rather than someone who did the protecting.

Dean, to his credit, had not flinched or buckled under the weight of Laurel's manic desperation. He'd just said, sternly but not unkindly, ''I'm not leaving you alone. I'm right here. I'm staying right here. I promise I will sit on this floor with you until this passes.''

''But I can't do it,'' she moaned. ''Please, please don't make me do this.''

''Sweetheart, you _are_ doing this. Eighteen days, Laurel,'' he said. ''You made it to eighteen days. I know how fucking awful it is, but you did it. Now we just need to get you to nineteen days, then to twenty, and you'll have that thirty day chip before you know it. I know you want that chip.''

''I want a drink,'' she'd muttered. ''Or... If I had an Ambien - ''

''If you slip now, you'll have to go back to the hospital for detox. And you know what they'll recommend.''

''But - ''

''Listen to me. You tried to kill yourself less than a month ago,'' he said. ''Do you really think there's anything in this house that you can take?''

That was, as overdramatic as it may sound, the moment the bottom dropped out for Sara. As soon as she heard those words, ones she never thought she would have to hear, she turned around, went back to the guest room, and stayed there. She didn't want to hear anymore. She didn't get much sleep either. She just sat there, going over what she had heard, trying to make sense of it.

It sounds clichéd and maybe even selfish, but she hasn't been able to look at Laurel the same ever since. She knows that's unfair. She just hadn't wanted to face the painful reality that she might one day have to exist without her. She thought if she could protect her, shield her, tiptoe around certain things, then maybe she could keep her. She hadn't wanted to lose her sister.

And then she did.

When she came home last May and her father told her that Laurel was gone, it was like the world had ended and all that had been left behind were the wastelands. She came home so excited to tell Laurel about everything she had done, and instead of the two of them going out for sushi, she had to stand at a cold grave. It was the worst feeling. It never left either.

Grief doesn't just dissipate. It turns into other things. It manifests. Over the past seven months, Sara has circled around every stage of grief but she's never been able to move forward. It's just this constant hurt. An unrelenting loneliness. A continuous guilt and unending anger. It has been utterly miserable to be here without her.

So, somewhere along the way, she started clinging to that night in the dark as an excuse. She's tried to shift her memories of Laurel into this weak, frail, sick person so she can make herself believe that it's better this way. _Laurel isn't suffering anymore,_ she would tell herself. _She's not in pain. She's free. That's what she deserves._

Then Laurel came home.

Now all Sara feels is guilty. She almost let her go. She came this close to it. She cried and screamed and ached and raged, but she left her in the ground. She didn't try to save her. She didn't take the waverider and go back to that night. She didn't stop anything. She didn't do what Laurel did. She didn't do anything at all. She just went numb. She shut down and convinced herself that Laurel was so sick she was better off dead.

In May, she stood in her sister's house next to her sister's husband and looked at her sister's little girl. Mary looks so much like Laurel. It's her eyes. She has her eyes. She has her nose. She has her sadness. She even has her warmth. Her incredible capacity for kindness. It surrounds her the same way it did with Laurel. You can feel it in her fingertips. You can feel it when she smiles at you and when she looks at you with those piercing eyes that seem to know exactly what you're feeling even before you do.

When Sara was with them last spring, Mary was so excited to have her there. She practically glued herself to Sara's side. Sara tried to be happy and she tried to smile and be Cool Auntie Sara but her entire world had just collapsed.

That first night, after dinner, while Dean was clearing the plates of mostly untouched food and Sara was awkwardly not looking anyone else in the eye, Mary leaned over and said, ''Don't be sad.'' She patted Sara's leg and smiled at her. ''Mommy's finished now, but she's happy.''

All Sara had managed in response was a weak smile. Her father burst into tears. She didn't know how to take Mary's words back then, but she's kept them with her over the past seven months.

 _Mommy's finished now, but she's happy._

She doesn't know what to think now.

Sara doesn't remember what it was like to be dead. She doesn't remember where she went after. She can't recall if there was peace. If she was happy. All she remembers of her death is a...a blankness. Laurel hasn't talked to her about what it was like for her either. All Sara knows is that despite her devastating guilt over her inaction, she can't say she was totally wrong to do nothing. Laurel suffered here. She was in pain. She's in pain now. She was born with so much hurt in her bones that she's never been able to get it out. God knows she's tried. Is it so wrong to want her to have some semblance of peace?

It's not like Sara wants her to be dead. Far from it. She wants her to be alive, to be whole, but she also wants what is best for Laurel. What if what's best is to let her rest? What if she is truly not supposed to be here? Maybe they should allow her the dignity of peace.

And, yes, maybe that sounds dismissive, but that's not what she's going for here. She meant what she said when she said she couldn't do this without her sister. But she's trying for mercy. Maybe that comes with letting go.

Sara has been trying not to think about all that since Laurel came back, but with what happened the other night...

How can she not wonder?

She sighs and swallows hard. She should talk to Laurel about this. They don't do that, is the thing. Not anymore. They used to. Before the boat, they used to talk all the time. They could talk about anything and everything for hours. Things are different now.

She never brought up what she heard that night. Sometimes she thinks she should have. She and Laurel should have been having those big conversations, should have communicated better, but everything was still so fresh and raw back then. Honestly, they still are. As much as it pains her to admit it, she and Laurel don't know each other that well anymore.

Life (and death) keeps pulling them apart. Whenever there is a stroke of luck and they get to be in the same place for any length of time, it's easier to just love each other and ignore the unsteadiness and the empty spaces, all that lost time and the things left unsaid.

They've never had any major conversations about addiction or depression or the League or their parents' divorce. They've never talked about Oliver or the Gambit or why Sara did what she did. They didn't talk about how Laurel got married and had a child and built this entire life without Sara there to build it with her. Laurel doesn't bring up cradling Sara's bloodied, dead body in her arms in some dirty alleyway in the heart of this lost city. Sara doesn't bring up that she never even got a chance to say goodbye when Laurel died or that she has thought, for so long, about what she would have said if she'd gotten that chance. The closest they've come to a meaningful conversation was when Sara found out about their mother's secret.

She needs to fix this. Especially if Laurel's running on borrowed time. There are things she needs her to know. She wants her to know how sorry she is. How much she loves her.

Sara rinses the strawberry juice from her hands and tries to think of something she can put on the tray with the fruit. When they were kids, Dad would make them chicken soup with dumplings whenever they were sick. It was his great-grandmother's recipe. Sara's sure Laurel must have a copy of the recipe around here somewhere, but she doesn't think she'd be able to replicate it and there's no way she has time to make it. Besides, they had soup last night.

Maybe some yogurt? That seems like a light enough snack, right? Yogurt and strawberries. And some tea. Definitely some tea. Something Laurel really likes. To be honest, Sara just wants her to eat something. She's been sleeping for over 24 hours at this point. She hasn't been comatose. She's woken up several times to go to the bathroom or change out of her sweat soaked pajamas and Dean's been making sure she stays hydrated, but she hasn't eaten much aside from what he got her to choke down last night. She needs to eat more than a few bites of an egg sandwich and some tomato rice soup. She needs to eat more than a bowl of not so great strawberries and a cup of plain yogurt for that matter, but this is a start.

Sara gets the kettle boiling, spends too much time rummaging through the impressively large variety of tea that has accumulated in this house before eventually just going with the disgusting lavender chamomile she knows Laurel likes, and grabs a yogurt cup out of the fridge. She loads everything up onto the tray and carefully makes her way out of the kitchen, nudging the door open with her shoulder.

In the dining room, Nyssa, Cas, and Charlie are all still gathered at the table, surrounded by books and open laptops. Aida, Nyssa's four-legged shadow, has plopped herself down at Nyssa's feet under the table. They haven't moved much in the past day. Nobody has. With Hanna Moretti in the hospital and Laurel safe and at least somewhat stable for the time being, the priority has been trying to determine what's possessing Marlene Moretti and how to get her unpossessed. They haven't exactly made great strides there.

Turns out it's hard to do research and vigilante stuff and other various command central-y things when there's a woman with the magical superflu and a super clingy four year old in the house. Spoiler alert: Kids and sick people take up a lot of your time. Especially this specific kid.

One of the many reasons she's content with being Cool Auntie Sara.

Not much about Charlie, Cas, and Nyssa has changed since the last time she checked on them. She thinks the book in Nyssa's hand might be a different book. Other than that, they're still in the same positions. Sara still stops in her tracks when she pushes through the kitchen door. The most noticeable difference is who has joined them at the table. No offense but he is the last person she expected to be here. She loves the guy but it's not like he's number one on the Christmas card list. But here he is: sitting at the dining room table, flipping through the Winchester Bestiary with a look on his face that's caught somewhere between naively dumbstruck and determinedly serious as he takes it all in.

''Ollie?'' She tries to blink away the shock. ''What are you doing here?''

He looks up from the book with a frown. ''What the hell is a shtriga? Is that - Am I even saying that right?''

''It's a soul eater!''

Both Oliver and Sara jump at the sound of Charlie's triumphant exclamation, which is not great for their reputations.

He furrows his brow at the redhead. ''A shtriga is a soul eater?''

''No.''

''Actually,'' Cas cuts in. ''Yes. A shtriga does consume souls.''

''Right, yes, correct,'' Charlie says. ''But that's not what I was talking about.'' She turns her excited, caffeine addled gaze to Sara. ''The thing that's possessing Marlene. It's a soul eater.''

''You mean it's a shtriga?'' Oliver asks.

''No,'' she shakes her head. ''Shtrigas only eat children's souls.''

Oliver looks appropriately horrified by that, but Charlie doesn't pause to give any additional information.

''I think what's possessing Marlene is a full-fledged soul eater,'' she says. ''Not an offshoot like a shtriga. It eats all of the souls. It...'' She pauses, narrowing her eyes like she's not quite sure how to say this next part. ''It doesn't discriminate? It's a soul eater,'' she declares, sounding 100% certain. ''I'm sure of it.''

Cas makes a humming noise in the back of his throat. He does not sound nearly as confident.

Charlie's shoulders drop as she looks at him. ''You disagree?''

He just shrugs. ''I don't know if I disagree,'' he says. ''I haven't dealt with many soul eaters. They're rare. The behavior of whatever Dean interacted with,'' he says, somewhat carefully, ''doesn't exactly fit the description of the soul eaters I know.''

Charlie takes that in stride. ''All right, well, let's review the facts.'' She grabs a notepad from the table, dramatically flips back a few pages, and then clears her throat, readying herself to speak.

Sara tries her best to hide the tiny grin starting on her face. She glances at Nyssa out of the corner of her eye. Much to her surprise, Nyssa isn't looking at her. She's got that familiar look on her face. It's the look that means she's trying not to smile or laugh. Sara knows that look well. The sight of it makes something in her chest swell with nostalgia. She's not sure what to do with the fact that it's directed at Charlie.

''Okay,'' says Charlie. ''So far what we know about the thing that attacked Dean is that it takes souls, it can possess people, it has white eyes, and he said it wanted to take him back to its nest. Soul eaters,'' she drops the notepad and pulls the laptop over to her. ''Take people's souls back to their nests and can possess people. Not to mention!'' She holds a hand up and pauses to dig through the papers on the table. Eventually, Nyssa is the one who lifts up a book, fishes out a different notepad, and hands it over without a word. ''Yes, thank you. Look at this.'' Charlie thrusts the notepad at Cas. ''This is what Dean said this thing's true face looks like.''

''I've seen it,'' Cas says. He takes the notepad but doesn't look at it, placing it down on the table. Sara doesn't need to see the sketch. She's already seen it. Still, she sets the tray down on the table and watches Oliver snatch the notepad. His way too careful non-reaction is a dead giveaway. Ollie does not like to be shocked. Actually, no, that's not right. The Green Arrow does not like to display shock or fear. Any time he feels it he goes blank. Right now, he's blank.

Can't blame him. It's not a pretty picture.

The cloaked figure in the drawing has a long black robe with a hood and an oddly elongated and distorted face with what looks like veins or markings of some kind on the skin. There are two deep dark holes where the eyes should be, and its mouth is open unnaturally wide, as if it has unhinged its jaw to devour whatever (or whoever) is standing in front of it.

This morning, she sat at this table and stared at the image, trying to imagine what she would do if she had to come face to face with this unsightly horror movie looking thing. It doesn't look like it has any physical vulnerabilities she could take advantage of. If it has to possess people, she's not even sure it's corporeal in it's real form. What could she do?

Dean hadn't even seemed the slightest bit shaken up by what he had come face to face with. It was weird. She knows her brother-in-law is not just a stay at home dad. She knows what he used to do, what his brother still does, what his family has come from. It hadn't been that much of a shock when she was told, in all honesty. At least not in theory. The Winchester brothers do seem like they've seen some shit. She had just assumed they were former military. Monster hunting makes sense too. Even still, she has to confess that it's strange to imagine the guy who spends most of his time doing laundry or making healthy snacks or kissing her niece's boo boos as some badass Van Helsing-like monster hunter.

Is that mean?

Sara looks over Oliver's shoulder at the sketch. It doesn't look like something that should exist in real life. Then again, magic, resurrection, and time travel aren't things that should exist either and here we are. She's lost her ability to be surprised by anything at this point. Her recently resurrected sister has superpowers, her brother-in-law and his family hunt demons, and she travels through time. Of course creatures like this exist. If Bigfoot himself burst through the front door and moonwalked through the house, she wouldn't bat an eye.

''Now look at this illustration of what a soul eater supposedly looks like,'' Charlie's saying, turning the laptop around to show them an artist's rendering of a soul eater. It does look an awful lot like the thing Dean saw.

''I agree that the evidence is pointing in the direction of a soul eater,'' Cas says, calm as ever. ''I'm just having trouble with this thing's behavior. Its personality contradicts what I know of these creatures. Soul eaters are solitary beings. They're not social. They do not interact with people let alone freely converse with them. Dean's description of this creature's demeanor suggests it may be...unhinged. I do not like the idea of an unhinged soul eater. There's also the matter of it's apparent partnership with the witch. Soul eaters are powerful and incredibly egotistical. They don't have partnerships.''

''Well, maybe this one was lonely. You can't generalize all soul eaters.''

''Soul eaters don't get lonely. They don't have emotions.''

''Right, but they do have hunger,'' she points out. ''They have to feed to survive. This one is being fed. Regularly from the looks of it. Think about it. If the witch is bringing people for it to feed on, it never has to lift a finger. And it's under the witch's protection, which means no hunters on its spooky ass. Maybe it's not lonely,'' she shrugs. ''Maybe it's just lazy. You know it adds up.''

''I admit we're more than likely looking for a soul eater,'' Cas relents. ''A strange one.''

''Perhaps that's why this witch sought help from it,'' Nyssa says. ''It's not only a rare creature but it's an oddity at that. If it contradicts what you know of soul eaters, a normal hunter sure isn't going to figure this out.''

''Uh, excuse me,'' Sara pipes up, and they all look over at her with identical looks on their faces that tell her they had forgotten she was there. ''Follow up question: What the hell is a soul eater?''

Nyssa offers her a small but wicked smile and a declaration of, ''It eats souls.''

Sara attempts a glare but it's hard to glare at Nyssa. Especially when she's looking at her like that.

''A soul eater is a supernatural entity that feeds on the energy of human souls,'' says Cas, which sounds like just a different way of saying it eats souls. ''They're not of this world. They exist in between time and space. In a kind of pocket dimension. Because they don't exist in this dimension, they're not corporeal. That's why they possess people if they need to fight back against an attacker. It feeds over a long period of time,'' he goes on. ''It removes the soul from the body and takes it back to its nest. In the meantime, the soulless body remains alive but comatose and empty. Over time the body withers and dies.''

Sara tries to ignore the shiver running down her spine. ''An empty, comatose body sounds like the perfect thing to reanimate and brainwash.''

''Exactly,'' Charlie crows. ''You get me.''

''If this is a soul eater, it would also explain why she's making so many of these soulless soldiers,'' Nyssa proposes. ''Would it not? If all she's doing is reanimating the bodies and brainwashing them into doing her bidding and she's not doing anything to boost the health of the already weakened bodies then she is still dealing with dying bodies. It would explain why she seems to target vulnerable people in crisis and criminals. There is no shortage of either of those in this city.''

That is...dark. And cruel. Almost unfathomably cruel.

It also means Marlene Moretti is in a lot more trouble than they thought.

Sara will admit that the Moretti family is not her number one concern at the moment but saving them seems to be important to Laurel and Dean so that's what they're going to do.

She slides her gaze over to Oliver. He hasn't said a word during all of this, instead choosing to take it all in silently, face a careful mask of false blankness. The mask does slip when Nyssa suggests that the people of his city have been unwitting targets of an evil witch, though. There is a coldness in his eyes and the way his mouth turns down into a barely noticeable frown. It's strange, she thinks, but even after everything that's happened, she is still surprised by that. She understands it. Better than anyone else, she understands it. That doesn't mean it's not jarring to see Ollie - the fun loving, tender hearted, good-humored boy she had a crush on growing up - openly and easily display such a cold demeanor.

''Good to know.'' He tosses the sketch back down on the table. ''How do we kill a soul eater?''

Everyone looks at Charlie, who, in turn, looks at Cas. He, somewhat unusually from what Sara knows about him, folds under the pressure. ''I don't...'' He sighs heavily and rubs at his forehead, closing his eyes. ''I don't know. My wealth of knowledge regarding various supernatural entities is not as impressive as it once was. I've lost a lot since I surrendered my grace. Human memories fade faster than I thought.''

''Aww, buddy.'' Charlie looks concerned, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. ''Don't be so hard on yourself. You're still the Sherlock to my Watson.''

''I thought Dean was the Watson to my Sherlock.''

''He's _clearly_ the Irene.''

''I barely know you and even I can tell you're highly intelligent,'' Nyssa adds on, helpful and even sort of comforting in that specific Nyssa way of hers. ''You don't have to be a seraph to be useful.''

''A sera - Wait.'' Oliver's head jerks up. ''Isn't that an angel?''

Nyssa's gaze is completely (and unsurprisingly) even as she gazes calmly at Oliver. ''Yes.''

He stares at her for a second, incredulous, and then swings his gaze over to Cas.

In response to the stunned, questioning look, Castiel, former angel of the Lord, merely offers him a cheeky looking smirk.

You know, Sara's been meaning to ask how much Oliver actually knows about who Dean, Sam, and Cas really are. Guess that answers that question. She's aware that he doesn't know everything, but guess he knows even less than she thought. Even her father knows Cas used to be an angel. She's not sure he believes it, but he's been told. She crosses her arms, allows him a second or two to process the news, and then she jumps in to save him. ''Did I know you were coming over today?'' She asks, tossing him a small but amused smile.

He looks at Cas for a second, narrows his eyes suspiciously, and then decides to let the angel thing go. Because that's where they're at in life. ''No,'' he admits. He gives Cas one last wary look and then rises to his feet and turns his attention to Sara. ''I'm a surprise.''

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the vicious smirk slowly crawl across Nyssa's lips as she stares at Oliver's back through her eyelashes.

''I wanted to check up on Laurel,'' he goes on, completely unaware of the look on Nyssa's face. ''See how she's doing. The last time I saw her... I just wanted to make sure she's okay.''

Sara is reminded of the day Laurel came back. It was a small thing, in the grand scheme of things, but it hadn't felt small at the time. Oliver referring to Laurel as ''the love of his life'' should not have been so surprising. Of course she's the love of his life. She's Laurel. He's Oliver. They've been in love since they were sixteen. Even when she was with him, Sara knew she would never be his number one girl.

Except Laurel _isn't_ in love with him anymore. She hasn't been for a long time. She has a husband now. She's happy with Dean. She loves him and he loves her. Anyone with eyes can see that. Their love is something boundless and infinite. It is blunt and unapologetically loud. It's something that survives, even when one of them was dead. They love each other completely. Without conditions, without limitations, without expectations, and without reservations. Their marriage is this epic patchwork of teamwork and laughter and the choices they make to love and support each other, to fight for each other, to choose each other every day for the rest of their lives. It's something rare, something incredibly real and true. Certainly something worth fighting for.

It is...really, _really_ obnoxious, to be honest.

Stupid happy people flaunting their functional marriage in the faces of people who are too damaged and broken and afraid or just too hashtag forever alone to ever have something like that.

Inconsiderate is what it is.

Somehow she doesn't think Oliver's problem with Dean and Laurel's marriage is that he finds them annoyingly in love. He doesn't look at them and feel reminded of how lonely he is. He still looks at Laurel and thinks of her as his. _His_ destiny, _his_ safety net, the love of _his_ life, what _he_ wants. Selfishness was Oliver's biggest problem before the island. She doesn't think that's gone away completely. Not when it comes to Laurel.

She forces a smile onto her face and opts not to pull on that thread. ''She's the same as when you called last night.'' She grabs the tray and opens her mouth to tell him to stay here while she goes to see if Laurel's awake only to immediately snap her jaw shut. She looks over his shoulder. Nyssa is still sitting quietly at the table, but her arms are crossed and she is still staring at Oliver's back. Cas and Charlie are whispering to each other. It might be best not to throw poor Ollie to the wolves. They'll eat him alive.

She shoves the tray into his hands, careful not to spill the mug of tea. ''Come on,'' she says. ''You can see for yourself. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you.''

It's not exactly a true statement, but she's working with what she's got here. She waits until he's moved and then she looks at Nyssa. Neither of them say anything, but Sara can't help the way her lips quirk up ever so slightly in a smile.

Nyssa, for a fraction of a second, smiles back.

Reluctantly, Sara breaks the eye contact and heads after Oliver.

''Just out of curiosity,'' he says as she falls into step next to him. ''Is Dean here?''

''This is his house.'' Still, she takes pity on him. ''He's not here. He took Mary to physical therapy.''

Halfway down the hall, he stops in his tracks to throw her an alarmed look. ''Mary goes to physical therapy? Why? Is she okay?''

She's not sure how to respond to that but she decides gaping at him is the way to go. ''You two worked side by side for almost two years and you didn't know her daughter has physical therapy twice a month?'' She can't manage to keep the disbelief from her voice. It never fails to surprise her just how little Ollie and his people know about Laurel. She knows it's not completely on them because Laurel is extremely protective of her personal life and values her privacy, especially when it comes to Mary, but she's still surprised. You would think, considering they all act like they were so close to her, that they would know at least a tiny bit about her life.

''She never told me,'' he says, far too defensively for her liking. At her look, he sighs again and has to admit, ''I never asked. I guess I never asked much about her family at all.''

Yes, she's getting that.

She raises an eyebrow at him but ultimately chooses to throw him a bone. ''I think technically what she does is called vestibular rehabilitation,'' she says. ''Her hearing loss affects her balance. You've seen her walk. She's a wobbler.''

She stops outside the master bedroom and instinctively blocks him from getting to the door. For a split second, she pauses. She's not sure this is a good idea. Laurel will thank him for coming all the way here to check on her and she'll mean it. She'll give him a hug, maybe a kiss on the cheek, and hopefully seeing her will assuage some of his worries. But Laurel is not in the best shape right now. She's had a fever on and off, she's weak, she's tired, and Sara isn't sure she's entirely comfortable with exposing her to Oliver when she's in a weakened state. She wishes she didn't feel that way, but that's the reality. She loves Oliver. She considers him part of her family. But he is a flawed man. One of his biggest flaws is how he treats Laurel. He still expects her to be the same sixteen year old he fell in love with. The girl who coddled him and ignored every red flag, the one who hid every negative emotion from him because she just wanted him to love her without pity or frustration.

Sara realized that back in February of 2014 when she made the mistake of inviting him to her welcome home dinner. It was like every illusion Oliver ever had about Laurel being this perfect angel were all shattered in one night. She has never seen anyone so angry at someone else simply for being in pain and for showing that pain.

Frankly, knowing what she now knows, Oliver might have deserved to be sprayed with the garden hose that night.

''All right.'' She takes the tray back from Oliver. ''You wait here for a minute. Let me make sure she's awake.'' She gives him a quick smile, then turns, and disappears into the bedroom.

The master bedroom has become cave-like over the past 24 hours. It's warm and, thanks to the blackout curtains Thea moved in from her room, it's dark. It still smells overwhelmingly of white sage. They've been periodically smoke cleansing the entire house with the sage every few hours as per Hanna's instructions and she's noticed the smell seems to linger in the bedroom. It just seems to cling to the sheets, the pillows, and the blankets, hanging there, hovering around Laurel like a protective bubble.

Sara closes the door behind her and looks over at Laurel, still burrowed under the covers, asleep. Even in the dark, Sara can see that she does not look peaceful. She's twitching in her sleep, head lolling from side to side. Sara puts the tray of food down on top of the dresser and approaches the bed. She hesitates for a second before she reaches out a hand to touch Laurel's forehead.

The second her fingertips so much as graze her sweaty, feverish skin, Laurel lets out a whimper and Sara snatches her hand back.

Laurel, face pinched in worry, moans and rolls over, burying her face in her pillow. Her body tenses up, fists clenching the sheets tightly, and she lets out what sounds like a breathless sob.

Sara tries her best to shake her awake gently. ''Laurel,'' she tries, and then tries again, ''Hey, you're dreaming, Sassafras.''

The only response is another moan, this time accompanied by a small plea of, ''No.''

Sara shakes her harder and says, louder this time, '' _Laurel_.''

It does the trick, but it is not exactly a pleasant awakening. Laurel quiets down and goes completely still, like she's passed through the nightmare and moved into peaceful rest. Then she wakes up. She wakes up roughly, with a loud gasp, eyes snapping open, body unexpectedly jolting upright.

Sara is almost embarrassed to admit how much it freaks her out. She is a highly trained former assassin. She was trained to _not_ be startled and to maintain her composure at all times. But when Laurel jerks upright, choking and sputtering as if she's been held underwater, Sara nearly jumps out of her skin.

Whatever nightmare she was in, Laurel doesn't manage to shake it off with ease. Her wild, wide eyes scan the room anxiously, fixating on the door. Her expression is a mixture of what looks like terror and rage.

Once her heart is beating again and she has aged about ten years thanks to Laurel's fucking horror movie jump scare, Sara takes in a few breaths and then asks, ''Are you okay?''

Laurel doesn't answer her. She doesn't even appear to hear her. Her eyes are still on the door, fists still clutching at the covers. She doesn't look like she's even aware that she's woken up.

Sara isn't sure what she's supposed to do. She stays quiet for about a minute, but can't keep her mouth shut any longer. The vacant, glazed over look in her sister's eyes is creeping her out way too much. She steps closer again with a soft, ''Laurel?'' She places a hand on her arm and instantly, Laurel jumps and flinches away from her touch. She does, however, look at her.

The second Laurel lays eyes on Sara, it's like the light comes on in her eyes. All at once her body deflates and seems to curl into itself. She buries her head in her hands.

Sara asks, again, ''Are you okay?''

Laurel sniffles and raises her head. ''Where's Dean?'' Her eyes are wet and scared and she looks worryingly hollowed out.

''He took Mary to her physical therapy appointment,'' she says, even though Laurel should know that already.

''Oh.''

''You sure you're okay?''

''I'm fine,'' Laurel says, although it's worth noting she refuses to look Sara in the eye when she says it. ''I - I was just... I thought...'' She frowns, brows furrowing like she's trying to calculate something in her head. ''I keep seeing...'' She never finishes any of those sentences.

''You keep seeing what?'' Sara asks. She gets, predictably, no answer.

Laurel turns her head to look at the window where the blackout curtains are pulled shut, keeping out the light. She presses her lips into a thin, tight line. It looks like she's trying to keep something in.

Sara's first thought is the sonic scream. She doesn't know how she feels about that thing. She knows she doesn't trust it. She trusts Laurel. She's just not sure about this thing inside of her. She wishes Laurel didn't have to deal with this, if she's being honest. The thing is a damn curse.

This scream is far more powerful than the device Cisco made for her and about ten times more powerful than the sonic devices Sara used to use from time to time. Laurel has done an amazing job of controlling the cry (even if most of that control has just been paralyzing fear) but everyone has realized that vulnerability and being emotionally and/or physically unwell is a trigger and that makes her dangerous. There have been some vague conversations about finding - or possibly even building - a space where she can safely practice her newfound ability, but with everything that's going on, that seems like a long ways away. Sara doesn't think it's out of bounds to be concerned that, in her current state, Laurel could lose control.

''Laurel,'' she murmurs softly. She isn't sure if she should step closer or back away.

Laurel snaps back to attention. She visibly swallows hard and then releases a breath. ''Sorry,'' she whispers. She clears her throat. She doesn't look like she's in danger of blowing. ''Sorry. Where...'' She scrubs at her eyes. ''Where did you say Dean was?''

''He took Mary to physical therapy,'' Sara reminds her - again. ''Do you remember?'' When all she gets is a blank stare and a lot of blinking, she elaborates. ''Mary didn't want to go. She woke you up to hide.''

Laurel remains unresponsive.

Mary is not fond of her vestibular therapy. Even with the limited amount of time she's spent around her, Sara knows that about her niece. She adores her physical therapist. She just hates the actual therapy. She was shaking like a leaf when she left. According to Dean, it's because she hates the long drive it takes to get to the center in Lamb Valley and because she's terrified of triggering a vertigo attack, which has happened a few times in the past. Today, she decided hiding with Mom was her best option for getting out of it. She ran into the bedroom half dressed, woke Laurel up with her screeching, and hid under the covers. She was not at all subtle about it. Dean and Laurel had to bribe her with the promise of a special viewing of Paddington to get her to come out.

This happened less than three hours ago.

Sara knows she's on edge when it comes to her sister, but she doesn't think her worry here is unreasonable. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed. ''Can you look at me?''

Laurels eyes are still vacant and far away, but she does reluctantly turn to look at her.

''Where are you right now?''

''I - I don't know,'' Laurel admits. Then, abruptly, ''Do you know when he'll be back?''

''Probably soon,'' Sara says. ''What do you need him for?''

''I just need to make sure he's okay.''

''Why wouldn't he be okay?''

Laurel doesn't answer that, but she does liven up. She still looks out of it and maybe somewhat hazy, but she throws back the covers and manages to get herself out of bed.

Sara tries to protest, to get her to stay in bed, but she knows better than to tell Laurel what to do. ''Were you having a nightmare?''

Laurel hobbles over to the closet and pulls out one of Dean's flannel shirts and a worn out looking SCPD sweatshirt that probably used to be Dad's. ''I don't know,'' she mumbles. ''I don't know what it was.''

''What did you see?''

''Nothing.''

''Are you sure? Because - ''

''Sara, I said it was nothing,'' Laurel snaps. Her voice is raspy from disuse but still sharp. Sara chooses (wisely) not to respond. She keeps her eyes on her, watching as Laurel strips off the sweat soaked t-shirt she's wearing, tugs on a fresh one, and throws on the flannel, her shaky hands struggling with the buttons. She still looks nervous, fidgety, and exhausted, but at least there's some life in her eyes. She grabs the half empty glass of water on her bedside table and takes a few sips, nodding at something over Sara's shoulder. ''Is that for me?''

Sara turns. Oh! Right. The tea and the strawberries. ''It is.''

''Is that coffee?''

''It's lavender chamomile. I know you like it.''

Laurel softens slightly. She still looks on edge but there is gratitude in her eyes. She puts the glass of water down and smiles softly. ''Thank you,'' she says, genuine. ''But I think I'm going to need something stronger than chamomile tea.''

''Or,'' Sara holds up a finger. ''Idea: You could drink some nice calming chamomile tea in bed and then go back to sleep. You need to - ''

''If you tell me I need to rest, I'm going to lose it,'' Laurel interrupts. ''I'm sick of people telling me I need to rest. I've rested. I was flat on my back for seven months. I've had more than enough rest for this lifetime.'' She pulls on the sweatshirt and brushes past Sara to pluck a single strawberry from the bowl, popping it into her mouth. ''Also, you didn't bring me a spoon.''

Sara jolts from her spot on the bed to double check the spoonless tray. ''Okay, that's my bad, but - '' She looks up, catching sight of Laurel shuffling over to the door. ''I should warn you - ''

Too late.

Laurel opens the bedroom door and instantly takes a step back, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. ''Oliver?''

Oliver, who has never been as smooth as he likes to think he is, stands there blinking like an idiot for about five seconds before he offers her an awkward wave and a smile. ''Hi.''

Laurel, clearly thrown, stares at him. ''You're...'' She looks deeply unsure about his presence here. ''Here. Standing outside my bedroom.''

He bobs his head up and down with excessive enthusiasm. ''Yep.'' He pokes his head inside the room and does a sweep. ''It's a nice bedroom. Smells like Thanksgiving.''

Sara, out of Laurel's line of sight, throws her arms out in exasperation and gives him a look. She's going for annoyed but she likely looks more flabbergasted than anything else. _Smells like Thanksgiving,_ he said. How does this dude manage to pick up so many women when he has no game whatsoever?

Laurel looks equally unimpressed. ''What are you doing here?''

''Oh, I was just...'' He struggles. ''You know. In the neighborhood.''

''He came to check on you,'' Sara says, because she just can't stand to see the poor guy flail hopelessly any longer.

Laurel looks in between the two of them and then she appears to give up. ''Yeah, okay.'' She runs a hand through her tangled looking hair. ''I really need some coffee.'' She moves past Oliver without another word, leaving both of them behind.

Sara's expecting Oliver to trail after her because he's good at that but he just watches her go before turning back to Sara with a dark look on his face. ''Sara, she looks awful.''

''Um, I think you might need to work on your compliments.''

''I thought you said - ''

''I said her condition had improved,'' she says. ''Which it has. She's way better than she was yesterday. I never said she was cured.''

''I thought Hanna and Matteo Moretti - ''

''They're still at the hospital. Hanna needed some additional breathing treatments,'' she says. ''She had an asthma attack.''

''How convenient.''

''Oh, come on, Oliver,'' she warns. ''Don't start.''

''I don't even know these people,'' he practically hisses. ''They did this to her and I'm supposed to trust that they'll fix her?''

'' _You_ ,'' she says, ''are not supposed to do anything. This isn't your show.''

He pauses at that. Guess he hadn't considered that possibility. She keeps her steely eyes locked on his and waits until he turns and walks away, still carrying his suspicion and disbelief with him, and then she lets out a breath. He has made it clear to her that he doesn't trust any of these witches (or possibly any witch at all) and that he doesn't believe Hanna and Mattie can help Laurel at all. If she's being honest, she doesn't think that's unreasonable.

She doesn't think an eighteen-year-old girl faked or somehow induced an asthma attack to avoid looking Laurel in the eye. She's not going to lie: it was a thought she had earlier when Sam called to report that Hanna was going to be staying longer than expected. But he was there when it happened and there's no real way to fake what happened to her. Sara believes Hanna has health problems that are being exacerbated by stress, fear, and grief. That sucks. She feels for the kid.

With that said, she doesn't trust the Moretti kids as far as she can throw them. She doesn't see why she should. They can cry guilt as much as they want to, but they still did this to Laurel. Maybe they feel bad about it now, but they still did it. You don't get credit for realizing you've fucked up only after the fuck up has occurred.

Sara respects that Laurel feels responsibility for these kids, but she's not buying what they're selling. She's willing to hear them out. She just doesn't want to pin all her hopes on them.

She rubs at a knot of tension in her neck. This is a mess. She fires off a text to Sam, asking him what's taking so long, and then she grabs the underappreciated tray of - well, okay, kind of subpar goodies, let's be real.

By the time she makes it out to the dining room, Laurel and Oliver have both disappeared into the kitchen. She tries to move right past the Three Musketeers, but she doesn't make it.

As soon as Charlie spots her, she asks, ''Should she be out of bed?''

''She says she's fine.''

''Just because she says it doesn't make it true,'' Cas says. ''She always says she's fine. Something she has in common with her husband.''

Sara tightens her grip on the tray and looks down at Aida, poking her head out from under the table and peering up at her curiously. ''Yeah, I know. It's Laurel,'' is all she manages to come up with. She turns to head into the kitchen. ''She could be bleeding out and she'll still tell you she's fine.''

''I wonder if perhaps that might have something to do with the reception she receives when she admits she is not fine.''

Sara stops at the sound of Nyssa's soft but forceful voice. She doesn't say anything, but it knocks the wind out of her. There is dead silence from behind her. Nyssa doesn't add anything else. Doesn't back track. Cas and Charlie stay quiet. Sara isn't quite sure how to take Nyssa's statement. She can't surmise if it was merely an observation or a dig at her. Either way, it stings. Especially coming from Nyssa. She ignores the possible jab, squares her shoulders, and makes her way into the kitchen.

''You didn't have to come all the way out to Avalon Park, Ollie,'' Laurel's saying as she scoops some coffee into a filter.

''I know,'' he says. ''I wanted to check on you.''

''You could've called.''

''I could've,'' he agrees, leaning back against the counter. ''I wanted to see you.''

''That's sweet of you,'' Laurel says lightly. ''I'm sorry I look like shit.''

He smiles at her. A real one, not one of those wooden ones. ''You don't look like shit.''

Sara puts the tray on the counter and glances in between them. She wonders how they do that. How they can make a conversation that, in theory, should be filled with tension seem so casual and comfortable.

Ollie tugs at his tie, pulling it out of place, and Sara watches as Laurel reflexively reaches out a hand to straighten it as she walks past him.

It's like being in the past.

''How are you feeling?'' He asks, waiting until her back is turned to loosen his tie once more.

Laurel doesn't answer right away. She gets the coffee brewing and then moves to the opposite side of the kitchen, leaning against the counter. She's careful to do it across from him and not right next to him. ''Last week, Dean got an email from Mary's preschool notifying parents that a child with a severe peanut allergy is going to be transferring to the class after Thanksgiving so they're going to be going peanut free. Dean and I haven't been able to agree on whether that means we should replace Mary's daily honey and peanut butter toast with SunButter on weekday mornings. He says it should be fine because she brushes her teeth after she eats. I think she's four and sometimes wipes her hands on her clothes. Her says I'm overthinking it but I don't want to accidentally kill a kid because she's wiped her hands on her shirt during the ten seconds we had our backs turned in the morning.''

Oliver and Sara stare at her.

Sara is wondering if Laurel's fever has spiked again.

Oliver says, with a frown, ''What's SunButter?''

''I'm just saying,'' Laurel sighs. ''I miss when that was our biggest problem.''

Sara puts her hands on her hips and takes a step back, narrowing her eyes. Then she says, ''I'd go with the SunButter.''

Ollie nods. ''You don't want to mess with a peanut allergy.''

Laurel throws her hands out. ''That's what I said!''

''Seriously,'' he adds on. ''What the hell is SunButter?''

''It's an allergy safe peanut butter substitute. It's made from - ''

''The _sun_?''

''...Sunflower seeds, Ollie.''

Sara can't help but cackle at the boyishly disappointed look on his face. When he glares at her, she sticks her tongue out at him and Laurel shakes her head at the both of them.

''What if there's a kid with a sunflower seed allergy?'' Oliver questions.

''Then I guess Mary will have to get used to oatmeal with blueberries in the mornings,'' Laurel says.

''But what if there's a kid with an oat allergy?''

She doesn't say anything to that, but she does toss him a half exasperated, half amused look.

''Just pointing out the variables,'' he smiles.

She rolls her eyes. Even with the eye roll, she can't hide the fond look on her face. He's got a pretty fond look on his face as well. It's a different kind of look. There's an edge to his fondness. It's probably not a look he should be directing at his happily married ex-girlfriend.

Sara looks at Laurel, who also seems to have noticed the look if the barely noticeable shift in her body language means anything. Sara doesn't have the energy or the patience to deal with any of that right now. She sidles up to Oliver, hoists herself up onto the counter, and asks, ''Should I be getting dinner ready?''

Laurel blinks a few times, clearly caught off guard by the question. ''What?''

''Should I be getting dinner ready?'' Sara repeats. ''It's almost four. A lot of times Dean will have something thawing by now or in the crock pot or he'll have at least mentioned dinner, but he didn't mention anything today. Should I be thawing something?''

''Did he ask you to?''

''No.''

''Then I think you're good.''

''What if he forgot?''

Laurel's lips start to curve up into a grin and she looks in between Sara and Oliver for a moment before saying, ''You two are just full of the hypotheticals today, aren't you?'' She laughs. ''You can try calling him, but I doubt it matters. We usually order out on PT days,'' she says, and then adds, under her breath, ''If we can even afford that right now.''

Sara doesn't let it go. ''What about snacks? Should I be getting snacks ready for Mary? I know she goes straight to the kitchen after school.''

''She should be fine,'' Laurel says. ''Dean always takes her to the Lamb Valley mall to get some trail mix and a strawberry peach smoothie after her therapy.''

Oliver pauses, cocking his head to the side curiously. ''Very specific.''

''Yeah, I don't know. He did it once or twice and she thought it was a thing so now it's a thing. She's big on routines.'' She pushes off the counter and turns around to grab a mug out of the cupboard. Just the act of reaching up to grab a mug looks like it exhausts her. Even Oliver seems to notice how winded she looks because he moves like he wants to help her or tell her to sit down. She doesn't give him the chance. ''Any updates on how the SCPD is handling the scene at the Bull's Eye? My husband's fingerprints were all over at least one of those crime scenes. I know we cleaned up as much as we could but we have no way of knowing if we missed anything and I don't want him dragged into a murder trial. He's been through enough.''

Oliver straightens up. ''Thea was at that scene,'' he reminds her. ''And there are still plenty of people in this city - including some members of the SCPD - holding a grudge against my family for my mother's part in the Undertaking. I'd rather not give any of them a reason to arrest a Queen. Trust me,'' he smiles tightly, ''we made sure there were no fingerprints left behind.''

She offers a terse nod. ''Good. What do the police think happened?''

''They're keeping things quiet for now,'' Sara jumps in. ''There hasn't even been a news report yet. But Dad still has friends in the department and they told him the SCPD is treating this as a drug deal gone wrong.''

''A drug deal?''

''Apparently the owner of the motel was a known drug dealer,'' Oliver says. ''And the other guy - uh, the - ''

''The soulless one,'' Sara finishes.

''He was obviously a user,'' Oliver says, and doesn't seem to catch Laurel's brief flinch at the callousness of his tone. ''The cops put two and two together and got - well, five. But it works out for us.''

''Well then,'' Laurel's voice is bone dry. ''That's certainly nice and tidy, isn't it?''

 _That's the SCPD for you,_ Sara doesn't say. She doesn't want to openly bash the organization her father worked for for half his life, but it's been made clear over the past few years that they are not exactly on top of things. Most of them are completely unaware of what's really going on in this city.

''It's not like it's hard to believe,'' Oliver points out. ''I know people like to think drugs are only a problem in the Triangle but they're everywhere.''

''Oh, I'm well aware of that,'' Laurel says. Her voice is casual but her eyes have gone cold. She looks at Oliver for a long moment, sizing him up. Sara doesn't know what for but she's wondering if she should perhaps be moving out of the blast zone. Even through her obvious exhaustion, Laurel still manages to transform her body language and the expression on her face entirely. The look on her face, the way she's standing, the tone of her voice when she speaks - it is all rigid and purposeful and vaguely intimidating. It's what Sara likes to call her Lawyer Mode. ''What do you propose we do about the drug epidemic, Mayor Queen? Your Chief of Staff tells me you've shot down her idea of safe injection sites, which would combat the growing number of overdoses happening in this city. So what's your plan? You must have one if you so easily shot down hers.''

Oliver looks far more stunned than he should be by the change of topic and the swift shift in Laurel's personality. He shakes it off as quickly as he can and volleys back, ''Safe injection sites don't solve the problem.''

''Have you looked at the numbers?'' She argues. ''Do you know how often first responders are being called to drug overdoses? How crowded the morgues are getting? Have you looked at those statistics? This is a dangerous city, Mr. Mayor, and the fight against opioids appears to be just getting started. Don't you think you should be doing whatever you can to limit the casualties?''

''You know safe injection sites are controversial,'' he says. ''The City Council would never approve - ''

''But you haven't even brought it up with them. You haven't put out a poll. You haven't reached out to any of the affected communities. You haven't treated the idea like a serious suggestion. So you must have another plan, right? Surely you wouldn't shoot down the only suggestion if you didn't have a plan yourself.''

Oliver just stares at her. He doesn't have an answer or a defense. He looks blindsided. Sara feels for him. She wouldn't want to go up against Dinah Laurel Lance, Attorney at Law either. She'll bicker with her sister, sure, no problem. No way in hell would she ever go up against Laurel the Lawyer. She values her sanity too much.

The one useful thing their mother ever passed down to Laurel is her debating skills. Mom has always been one of the most skilled debaters - and one of the most terrifying. Sara vividly remembers family dinners where she would sit at the table, listening to Mom calmly and easily verbally slam someone into the table. Laurel inherited that. Sara did not. She has no patience for debates and she lacks the ability to stay calm when the person on the other end of the debate won't agree with her. Mom and Laurel are both somehow able to remain calm yet forceful and steadfast in their convictions. Sara just gets pissed and starts fights.

She hops off the counter. She doesn't want to get in the middle of the political minefield Laurel has pushed Oliver onto, but she doesn't want to miss anything either. She grabs the forgotten yogurt cup and strawberries from the tray to put them back in the fridge but Laurel blocks her and steals them back.

''You're coming at me pretty hard here, Counselor,'' Oliver quips. ''Don't you think?''

Laurel remains unbothered. ''That's bound to happen when you're in politics. And you, Mr. Mayor, are in politics.'' She grabs a spoon from the cutlery drawer. ''Better get used to it.'' She takes a seat at the breakfast nook and dumps the yogurt on top of the strawberries. ''But, okay, if you don't want to talk about drugs, we can talk about something else.'' She looks up at him with a twinkle in her eye. Her voice is bright and cheerful when she asks him, bluntly, ''What's your stance on gun control?''

Oliver goes slack jawed.

Sara bursts into laughter. ''This almost reminds me of the last Thanksgiving we went to,'' she says, and grins when she hears Laurel start laughing.

When she was about Mary's age, the entire Lance-Drake family was permanently banned from the annual Drake family Thanksgiving. Or maybe Mom was the one who banned them. Either way, it was also one of the only times Sara has ever seen her mother lose her composure during a debate. Every Thanksgiving up until that point, Mom would spend the entire dinner talking about colonizers, stolen land, smallpox blankets, and the indignities done to the Native American people. Which is, you know, more than fair, but Sara is fairly certain Grandma and Grandpa held Thanksgiving dinners because they wanted to have some pie with their grandchildren. Ideally without their middle child making everything into some big Issue.

The exact tipping point was when Grandpa interrupted one of Mom's passionate rants with a stern, ''Dinah Alexandra, can we at least enjoy our mashed potatoes without you talking over all of us?''

Sara's not sure what it was - maybe it was because she didn't like being interrupted, maybe she was just embarrassed at getting middle named by her father, or maybe it was the three glasses of wine and one rum and coke - but in response, Mom's entire face went beet red and she yelped out, ''Your mashed potatoes are racist, Dad!''

Sara and Laurel haven't celebrated a traditional family Thanksgiving ever since. But they did get something to tease their mother about. Sara looks over at Laurel. She's munching on a yogurt covered strawberry and she's still smiling at the memory but there's a sad, almost bitter edge to it.

Sara's own smile dims at the sight of it. It's hard to think of Mom in a positive light right now. It must be even harder for Laurel.

The kitchen door opens just enough for all three of them to hear that familiar creaking noise, and then it closes. On the other side of the door, there is a tiny ''oof'' sound followed by a squeaky, ''Can somebody help me?!''

Sara and Laurel both move but Oliver moves faster, rushing over to open the door for Mary. She marches into the kitchen with a grin and what looks like the remnants of a smoothie all over her face. Both of her tiny hands are gripping a cup full of green juice. When she looks up and spots Oliver standing there, her smile falters. She shies away from him, cheeks reddening, but still manages to offer up a polite, ''Thank you.''

He smiles back at her, softer than his usual smiles. ''You're welcome,'' he says. ''I like your shoes.''

She perks up at that. ''My Uncle Sammy got 'em for my birthday,'' she says proudly. ''They light up. See?'' To demonstrate this, she stomps a foot on the ground. The juice in the dangerously full cup sloshes and nearly goes splattering to the ground despite the flimsy lid. Mary doesn't notice.

''Wow,'' Oliver marvels. ''That's so cool. I wish I had light up shoes.''

''Maybe you can get them for your birthday,'' she suggests, sweet as ever. She looks, for a second, like she might actually be open to continue engaging in conversation with him, but then she spots Laurel sitting at the table, awake, out of bed, and eating one of her yogurt cups. ''Mommy!'' She gasps, eyes widening. She scrambles over to her mother, still clutching at the cup of juice. ''You're awake!''

''I am,'' Laurel says, offering her a beaming smile. She takes the juice and puts it on the table before turning all of her attention to Mary. Her smile softens and she angles her body toward her daughter, reaching out to cup her face in her hand gently. ''Hello, honeybee.''

Mary, eyes lit up completely, grins up at her. It's a small gesture; just a quiet, brief moment between them before Laurel laughs and grabs something to wipe at the mess on Mary's face, but Sara gets caught in it. They both look so genuinely, sweetly happy to see each other. Things are, for that one short moment, uncomplicated. They are unburdened. There is just Laurel and Mary and all that unending, unfathomable love between them.

Sara thinks, in this moment of completely ridiculous childishness, that she wishes someone would look at her the way Laurel looks at Mary.

Out of nowhere, she aches. She can't tell if she's aching for Laurel or for Mary or for herself, but it's in her chest and stuck in her throat. She has to look away.

It's her sister's softness that gets her. It's everything Sara has never allowed herself to be and everything she's always relied on Laurel to give her. She lost out on years of that. Something about that quiet moment has reminded her of that. All that lost time. You don't get that back once it's gone.

She looks around the kitchen for an escape. Something to do, to clean, just something to keep her hands busy. Normally, she would leave. Duck into the garage for some quality time with the punching bag or head out for a run. Even make up an errand or some bullshit excuse to go hide out at Dad's. There's no way out this time.

''Did you have a good time with Miss Ella today?'' Laurel's asking, still struggling to get the sticky mess off Mary's face with a dry paper towel.

''Uh-huh,'' Mary nods happily. ''I rolled and I didn't get dizzy.''

''Sweetie, that's great,'' Laurel cheers. ''I'm so proud of you!''

''But I fell down when I was running,'' Mary says. For about a second, she looks discouraged. Then she perks up and adds, ''But Daddy kissed it better and I got band aids.'' She plops down on the floor and rolls her kitty cat leggings up to her knees. ''See?'' She points at the band aids on both knees and makes sure that everyone gets a look at her Sesame Street band aids. ''Miss Ella only had Elmo,'' she says, ''and Elmo's only okay - ''

Oliver looks disproportionately aghast at Mary's anti Elmo declaration.

'' - But Daddy had Paw Patrol in the car so I got Elmo here,'' she points to her knees, ''and Skye here'' She thrusts her hand out to show her mom and then holds it out to Oliver and Sara.

Oliver, leaning into to look at the band aid, blurts out, ''Who's Skye?''

Mary looks baffled at the question. ''From Paw Patrol.''

He looks just as baffled. ''What's Paw Patrol?''

She blinks at him like she doesn't understand the question and then her face slowly morphs into a comically incredulous expression. ''You don't know Paw Patrol?''

Sara makes what she thinks is a valiant attempt to cover her mouth to hide her grin.

''Ollie's not really up to date on his pop culture, Mary,'' Laurel says, helping Mary to her feet and then lifting her up onto her lap. ''He hasn't even seen Stranger Things.''

Oliver pouts. ''I started it.''

Mary still looks so completely dumbfounded by the idea that there could be people out there who have not seen Paw Patrol that she forgets to be shy and just bursts out, ''You gotta watch Paw Patrol!''

He looks put on the spot.

''It's Mary's favourite show,'' Laurel explains. ''It's about dogs.''

''Talking dogs,'' Mary corrects. ''They help people and I like Skye the best 'cause she can fly but I love all of them and they're all my favourites.''

''It's on Netflix,'' Sara chimes in helpfully. ''Maybe you should put it on your list. It might be more your speed.''

He looks offended by that for about 2.5 seconds before he shrugs and says, ''I do like talking dogs.''

''That's the spirit.'' She pats him on the back. ''And hey - you can always call Mary if you get lost. Right, baby girl?''

Mary, reaching for the cup of green juice on the table, looks up, blinks, glances at her mom, and then signs, _What?_

 _Nothing,_ Laurel assures her, before helpfully moving the juice close enough for Mary to reach. ''What's this?''

''It's for you,'' Mary says happily. ''It's hand juice.''

There is a long pause. ''Hand juice?''

''Uh-huh,'' Mary nods.

There's another pause as Laurel sniffs suspiciously at the juice.

Sara slides into the seat across from Mary and Laurel. ''Do you mean hand squeezed juice? Or maybe hand pressed juice?''

''Yeah, hand juice,'' Mary says confidently. ''It's good for you.'' She grabs the cup with both hands and holds it up to Laurel, waiting patiently for her to take it. ''It makes you feel better so you can stop sleeping and be with me.''

Laurel's face visibly falls at that, but she forces a smile and says, ''Then I guess I'd better drink it all up.'' She drops a quick kiss to the top of Mary's head and then accepts the drink, taking a small sip from the straw. She winks and Mary laughs, that adorable, contagious little laugh of hers.

Sara chuckles, unable to help herself. Before she has a chance to ask where her green hand juice is, the kitchen door swings open again and Dean strolls into the room. He looks distracted, juggling his phone, a bag of trail mix, and a smoothie, but Oliver and Sara both still tense up when they see him. She's expecting him to be pissed that Oliver, the man who has zero respect for him and has been, if she's being honest, a nuisance, is in his home.

Dean doesn't even give him a second look.

''Daddy.'' Mary hops off Laurel's lap and throws herself at Dean as soon as he is within arm's reach, grabbing onto his leg. ''Mommy's awake!''

He abandons the smoothie on the table and slips his phone back into his pocket. ''I can see that,'' he says, handing her the bag of trail mix.

She opens it up, shoves her tiny hand in to grab a handful, and then stuffs the whole handful into her mouth. ''I didn't wake her up,'' she says seriously, peering up at him innocently, her voice muffled by the mouthful of treats. ''Promise.''

''I know,'' he lifts her up onto his hip with ease. ''I believe you.'' He looks over at Laurel, smile dimming slightly, and then he looks - for about half a second - over at Sara. She's not entirely sure what the look on his face means but it puts her on edge. He leans down to peck Laurel on the lips softly and then whispers something in her ear. Her entire body tenses up and when he pulls away, she turns to look out the window.

Sara catches sight of Oliver standing up straight, body at the ready.

Dean doesn't seem to notice. ''You know, pumpkin,'' he's saying. ''I think Aunt Nyssa could use some help taking Aida for a walk. You think you could help her?''

Mary's eyes get so big they look like dinner plates. ''Yes!''

Sara scoots closer to the window and pushes the curtain back to peek into the backyard where Sam is stepping through the back gate, leading two exhausted looking young adults into the backyard. Sara turns back, catching Oliver's eye. There is no way he's going to leave now. Hell, she strongly doubts he came here just to check on Laurel. He wanted to know what was going on.

''Okay.'' Dean's smile is tight, but Mary doesn't seem to notice. ''Let's go get your coat on. You can bring your trail mix with you. Mom's going to put your smoothie in the fridge for you and you can finish it when you get back. Deal?''

Mary lets out a happy screech of, ''Deal'' and then, ''Hurry up! Let's go, let's go!''

Dean shoots one more look in Laurel's direction and then he and Mary are gone, pushing through the kitchen door.

Laurel doesn't even pause. She rises to her feet and grabs Mary's smoothie to put away. ''Ollie - ''

''I'm not going anywhere.''

She closes the fridge door and turns to face him. ''I wasn't going to ask you to leave,'' she says, with patience only the mother of a small child could have. ''You should know what's happening here if you're going to help.''

''You could try not being a big ass,'' Sara suggests brightly. ''Just for something different.''

''I wasn't - ''

''And if you and my husband could keep the snarky comments to a minimum,'' Laurel says, monotone. ''That would be great.''

He blushes at that, but still mutters out defensive, ''Tell him that.''

''I will tell him that,'' she says. ''Right now I'm telling you.'' She squeezes his shoulder briefly and then brushes past him and out the door.

Oliver watches her go with this odd frown on his face, blinking in surprise, and then he turns to Sara. ''Did she just use her Mom Voice on me?''

She grins, winks at him, and gives his ear a light tweak as she moves past him. She shoves into the dining room and looks around, managing to catch sight of Laurel just as she's escaping down the hallway. Sara pauses to look in Dean's direction. She's expecting him to be hot on Laurel's heels but he's too busy trying to get Mary, chattering away through another mouthful of trail mix, bundled back up into her coat and hat to notice. Even Nyssa, attempting to catch her excited puppy long enough to clip the leash on, doesn't seem to notice.

Sara goes after Laurel. She hurries down the hall and out the sliding glass door just in time to see Sam wrap Laurel up in a hug. ''I'm fine,'' she's saying. ''Really, I'm good. I promise.'' She's lying through her teeth.

Sara might be more interested in that if not for the two witches standing in the backyard. Hanna and Mattie are both standing there, looking unsure, hanging back by the gate. It occurs to her that she has no idea how to defend herself against a witch. She has no idea how to protect Laurel from a witch. Although, given the mildly terrified looks on Harry and Hermione's faces over there, she's not sure that's going to be a huge concern.

Mattie looks fiercely protective of his sister but also nervous. He keeps himself glued to Hanna's side, but doesn't actually look like he could pull off any significant magic attack. He's a well-built kid, but even if he tried for a physical attack, he would lose. Hanna's the wild card. She's a tiny little slip of a thing, but she's the one who packs the wallop according to Dean. But she can't even look at Laurel.

She's standing there with her eyes downcast, lips trembling, body angled away from them. There's something about the level of fear present in her eyes that makes Sara uneasy. It seems excessive for the circumstances. These kids have been through a lot. Their grandmother is dead, their mother is soulless and possessed, their uncle is a jackass, and their father appears to be a money hungry loser. They have a reason to be fearful and grief stricken. This is just a lot more fear than Sara had been expecting. It seems...exaggerated.

Laurel must notice that too because her voice is the gentlest it has ever been when she steps away from Sam to greet the siblings. ''Hanna,'' she smiles. ''It's good to see you're okay.''

Hanna manages a weird wobbly grimace looking thing and shuffles closer to her brother.

Laurel takes it in stride. ''Sweetheart, I've known you for years. Am I really that scary?''

''No,'' Mattie says hurriedly. ''No, it's nothing like that. It's just - It's the spell,'' he says. ''She can see it.''

''She can see it?''

''Some witches can see the spells they cast,'' he says. ''Or,'' he keeps going when Hanna sends him a look. ''Not the spells, but the marks they leave behind. Kinda like magical fingerprints.''

''What do spells look like?'' Sara asks.

''A - A haze most of the time,'' Hanna stammers out. ''But not - not this one. This one looks like...'' She bites down on her bottom lip. ''Something else.''

''Something else?''

''Rot,'' Dean's voice says from behind them. He's just stepping out onto the deck, closing the sliding glass door behind him. He looks strangely nonchalant. ''It looks like rot.''

Hanna looks stunned, exchanging a brief look with Mattie. ''How do you know that?''

''A friend,'' he shrugs. ''He said he could feel the rot inside of her.''

When Laurel goes pale at that, he moves to comfort her. Like he usually does. She shakes his hand off her and shuffles away from him. ''Boy,'' she says, voice dry and sarcastic. ''You sure like to keep a lot of things to yourself, don't you?''

He flinches, but doesn't respond.

Sara looks over at Sam briefly and he catches her eye. He looks about as uncomfortable as she feels. ''Uh,'' he clears his throat and looks over at Hanna. ''He's - He's right? About the rot?''

Hanna manages a jerky nod. ''When I...'' She stops to take a deep breath and then looks right at Laurel. ''When I look at you,'' she says. ''I don't see you. I just see rot. I see what the spell is doing to you. My spell. I'm so sorry.''

Mattie stands up straighter at that. '' _Your_ spell?''

''I…I did this to you,'' she whispers. ''What's happening to you is happening because of me.'' Then she bursts into tears.

Sara is not proud of it but her first reaction to Hanna's sobs is to screw her face up in aggravation. She's not great at the whole comforting thing. She's good at being comforted. Not so much at reciprocation. Being all maternal and shit is just not her forte. She's great at inappropriate humor, though. She's got jokes for days. That's her thing. That's what she brings to the party.

In this specific situation, at least she's not the only one not feeling the tears.

Sam audibly sucks in an exasperated sounding breath when Hanna starts crying. He actually checks his watch. Dean remains blank. Laurel is the only one who looks somewhat conflicted. She looks impatient, like she's ready to get this all over with as quickly as possible so she can go back to bed, but she also looks sympathetic. Or maybe that's just her face. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

She looks away for just a second. When she turns back it's like looking at a different person. All of her features have softened and she has this odd look on her face full of vulnerable kindness and compassion. The extreme change is unnerving to say the least.

''I'm really sorry,'' Hanna sobs out. ''I never meant for any of this to happen.''

''Okay,'' Laurel sighs out. She steps over to the Moretti siblings and gently extricates Hanna from Mattie's protective grip. ''Hanna, honey, look at me.'' She places both hands on the girl's cheeks to force her to look at her. ''I know you're sorry. I know that. I'm sorry too. I'm so sorry about your grandmother.'' She gives both of them a sad, understanding, kind looking smile. ''You and your family were in a bad situation. You must have been scared. I understand. It's hard to say no to family, isn't it? Even when you know what they're doing is wrong.''

Even when she is talking to her own daughter, Laurel's voice has never been this sickeningly sweet. She leads Hanna over to one of the chairs on the porch and sits her down. It's only when Laurel crouches down in front of Hanna, still looking at her with that soft, mushy look, that Sara understands what is going on here. This is a con.

''Listen,'' Laurel says. ''One way or another, everything is going to be okay. We're not going to let anything happen to you.'' She looks over at Mattie. ''To either of you.''

Hanna wipes at her eyes. ''What about our mom?''

It's telling, in Sara's opinion, that she doesn't even bother to ask about her father and uncle.

''We're going to do our best to get her home to you,'' Laurel says. She sounds like a hostage negotiator right now. ''But we need you to tell us what you know so we can figure out how to move forward. Can you do that?''

Hanna nods shakily, but she's still sniffling and there are fresh tears running down her cheeks. ''It's my fault.''

''What makes you say that?''

''What she wanted to do to you,'' Hanna says. ''It was sick. I didn't want any part of it. I never cared about the money. We would have figured it out.'' She pauses for a minute, trying to gather herself together. ''All my life, my mom and my - my grandmother,'' her voice catches. ''They taught us that witchcraft is our birthright. That it's a gift and that because we've been given this gift, it's our responsibility to use it to _help_. To make the world a better place. They taught us to be good.'' She says that part firmly. ''They wanted us to know that we are not wrong for existing. It doesn't matter what hunters think of us or what other witches do with their power. We are _good_ witches and _good_ people. We use white magic. We don't hurt people. Doing this goes against everything they raised us to believe.''

It's quite the speech. It's quite the performance. Sara can't tell if a ''performance'' is all it is. She wants it to be real. It's just... There's something off. She believes the grief is real. It's all of these passionate apologies. Eighteen year olds aren't exactly known for saying all the right things at exactly the right moments and yet here she is; hitting every single one of Laurel's buttons. Hanna is this frail looking, doe eyed, scared, currently motherless child making all these impassioned declarations in a big, Laurel-like way, and she is focusing all of those heartfelt pleas in Laurel's direction.

It feels like a trap.

Maybe she's just that scared. Or maybe she's a plant. Her mother doesn't appear to have had much choice in this. Neither has her brother. But her father... Everyone's sort of glossed over that issue. Regardless of what Marlene's choices were or weren't, he willingly chose to work for this witch, to do what he did, to attack Laurel in her own home. Who's to say Hanna doesn't take more after her father?

Sara stares at the girl sitting quiet and still on the dirty, still damp chair, hands folded demurely in her lap. She tries to spot any obvious tells in her body language. Anything that gives her away. It is clear this girl is smart. It's also clear she's been way more involved in this thing than Mattie. What if she's not as innocent as her brother wants to believe she is?

If Sara knows anything it's that it is far easier than you think to switch sides and go dark when that side is offering you survival. People do twisted things in order to survive.

''I tried to talk them out of it,'' Hanna says. ''But my uncle...'' She shifts in her seat, the first visible sign of discomfort she's shown so far. ''He convinced my parents that this was easy money. My father - He'll follow Ricky anywhere.''

''His brother _always_ comes first,'' Mattie says in a mumble, bitterness creeping into his voice.

''Mom was desperate,'' Hanna says. ''She wouldn't have done any of this if she wasn't. I swear. She's not a bad person. Neither is my grandmother. They convinced themselves that no one would get hurt. You were only a body. You weren't supposed to feel anything. Your family was never supposed to know. Mom didn't want to hurt you.'' She looks past Laurel to Dean. ''She didn't want to hurt any of you. They just got so lost.'' She lowers her voice to a regretful sounding near whisper. ''I had to do something.''

Sara, with a growing sense of unease, asks, ''What did you do?''

''I...'' Hanna's voice is a tiny, scared squeak. ''I...''

''You botched the spell on purpose.'' It's Mattie who says it. His voice is quiet and incredulous. He's stepped back from her and he's staring at the back of her head with this mixture of disappointment, shock, and fear.

Sara has to admit that if her older sibling looked at her like that, she would be destroyed. So she can understand why Hanna immediately crumbles. It might be the most genuine emotion she's displayed. ''I didn't know what else to do,'' she cries out, standing up and trying to take a step toward him. ''Someone had to do something! Nobody was doing anything to stop them! Gran knew it was wrong and she wrote that spell for them anyway!''

''We could've just left,'' he bursts out. ''I told you - I told you we could leave without them. Get out of town. They needed you to do that spell. If we had just left - ''

''They're our parents. We need our parents!''

''We're fucking _adults_ , Hanna!''

Yes, they seem real with it in that regard.

''Hey!'' Both siblings jump at the sound of Dean's sharp voice. There is no ire or anger in his expression, but there is a hefty dose of impatience in his voice. Instead of glowering at them, he merely raises his eyebrows and says, ''I get that you two are working through some shit right now but can we save the family drama for later? What did you do to botch the spell?''

Hanna clears her throat and swipes at her eyes again. ''Gran wrote the spell but she wasn't part of casting it and she was always changing things around so I thought if I changed some of the wording and took some parts out, no one would notice. I thought it would just fail. I thought nothing would happen and it would give me more time to talk my mom out of this. But I didn't know...'' She blows out a breath and her shoulders deflate. She seems to get smaller before their very eyes, shrinking into herself like a dying flower. ''That night, when the witch showed up at the graveyard, she changed the plan. She took the spell I had already changed and changed it even more. She made it a blood spell.''

''A blood spell,'' Laurel echoes. ''What's a - ''

''A blood calls to blood spell,'' Hanna corrects. ''That's what brought you back. You woke up because she called to you.''

A cold feeling of dread settles in Sara's gut. ''She called to her?''

''I don't think she meant to,'' Hanna says. ''She's overconfident but I don't think she fully knows what she's doing. If she did, she wouldn't have needed us to write the spell in the first place. I don't think she's ever done anything like this before. She must have thought making it a blood spell would be like a failsafe. Even if our spell failed, she could still use our magic to bring you back by connecting you to her.''

Sara can feel Laurel stiffen beside her at the notion of being connected to this witch.

''She must not have realized that our combined power could bring you back whole. Honestly, neither did I. I've heard of it happening before but it's so rare and you have to have a lot of power. I think...'' She frowns, thoughtful. ''I don't think she understands her own power.''

''How can she not - ''

''Because it's not her power,'' Mattie says, cutting Laurel off. ''The magic she has isn't a birthright. She's a thief.'' He spits that last word out like it's poison, voice dripping with righteous anger and what sounds like deep offense. ''All she does is take.''

''She has witchcraft in her blood,'' Hanna says, laying a hand on his shoulder. ''She has her own power. She's just added to it. Mom could sense it the moment we met her. We figured she was just a particularly powerful Borrower.'' She doesn't bother to explain what the hell that is. She wrings her hands anxiously instead and chews on her lip. ''We were wrong.''

Sara has so many questions. They keep bubbling up in her throat and she just keeps swallowing them down. She doesn't want to bury the kid with an endless string of questions. She needs her to keep talking, not clam up. The one question she does allow herself to ask, as calmly as she can, is, ''Where is she getting her power?''

''From other witches,'' says Hanna. ''Other Naturals like us. She's killing them and stealing their power. I think that's what she was going to do to us if we stopped taking her orders. That's why we ran.'' She gingerly sits back down in the chair. Her nervous fingers work the charm bracelet around her wrist. ''We heard through the grapevine that some witches had been killed. An elder witch in Amnesty Bay, two sisters up in Modesto, and an entire coven in Ivy Town. But the way we heard it, that was all the work of hunters. It happens sometimes. A hunter goes on a spree, word spreads through the community, and we hunker down.'' She slides her eyes over to Dean and Sam. ''Actually, there was some talk on the message boards that you two were involved.''

''Sorry to disappoint,'' Dean says.

''Wait.'' Sam raises his eyebrows. ''The message boards?''

''We figured it would pass,'' Hanna goes on. ''It's...an unfortunate part of being a witch, but it is what it is. But then, a few days ago, Gran was talking to a friend of hers and she learned that the witches had all had their powers drained out of them. That's when Gran figured it out. I don't know how she knew this witch was the killer, but she was sure of it. As soon as she told my mom, that was it. We had to get out of there. That's why we were at that motel. We were trying to get away. Mom was already on edge because of what happened to Laurel. She wanted to find a way to help you,'' she tells Laurel. ''She knew you would be feeling the effects of the spell's disintegration and she - she wanted to save you.'' A tiny, nervous flicker of a smile skitters across her lips. ''She knew it was the least we could do. The plan was to get Gran and me to the motel, then Mom was going to go back and get Mattie, and then we were going to get out of dodge. But when we got to the motel...''

That's the end of her story. She can't finish.

''Can you help Laurel?'' Dean asks the question with more caution than expected. He doesn't seem to want to spook the girl. ''You said your mom wanted to find a way to help her. Did she?''

Hanna looks at Mattie, then at Laurel, and then back at Dean. She nods. ''I think so. I'm not my mom,'' she warns. ''I'm nowhere near her level. But I can try. I want to try. I want to help.''

Sara works incredibly hard not to show her suspicion.

''Thank you,'' Laurel says. She reaches out to take Hanna's hand, squeezing gently.

''Uh.'' Sam raises a hand slightly, like he's asking for permission to speak. ''It's great that you can help,'' he says, ''but there's another problem here. Do you know _why_ she's doing this? What's her endgame?''

''I don't know,'' Hanna says. ''I'm sorry. I was never told. My mom might know.''

Sam moves past that fairly easily. ''This witch,'' he says. He looks over at Laurel briefly, and then at Sara. ''You said she did a blood calls to blood spell. Does...'' He doesn't seem to want to say it. ''Does that mean...?''

Hanna sucks in a breath. Her eyes skitter over to Sara for a second and then to Laurel. ''She's related to you,'' she confirms hesitantly. ''I don't know how, but she's part of your bloodline.''

Oh ...Good. That's great.

What in the hell in Sara supposed to do with that? Where does she put that information? She already has all this brand new information about her family swimming around in her head. Her mother's a liar, they're the descendants of a power hungry witch, firstborn daughters are doomed, their entire bloodline is basically one long line of sad or broken or horribly selfish women, and her dead sister is no longer dead but isn't quite alive either, brought home by shoddy workmanship, hanging on by a thread. She is at maximum capacity for family drama. There's no room for this newest revelation.

She clenches her teeth to keep from losing her shit entirely and looks to Laurel for direction. She gets nothing in return. Laurel just looks blank; completely unaffected and stoic in the face of yet another harsh reality about the family they thought they knew. It's frustrating.

All Sara can think about is the Christmas Eve parties they used to have at Grandma and Grandpa's house on Sassafras Drive. It was tradition. Before she was born, the family Christmas was on Christmas Day but with her birthday falling on the 25th, the day became a birthday/Christmas hybrid for awhile. Christmas Eve, on the other hand, was just for the holiday.

She remembers everything about those parties. The matching pajamas the kids got every year from Grandma and Grandpa, the honey baked ham, Aunt Valerie's French Silk Pie, the fruitcake Grandma made that no one ever ate. Mom making them stop to pick up a poinsettia centerpiece on the way there every single year, Dad and Uncle Danny getting tipsy on eggnog and laughing way too loudly at their own inside jokes, the way Grandpa would grab Grandma when she was trying to clean up the mountains of wrapping paper and twirl her around the living room, singing along with Bing Crosby while she blushed.

She loved those parties. Her birthday was nothing compared to them. She clung to the memories of those parties while she was floating half naked and half dead in the sea. Or when Ivo would call her to his quarters at night, look at her with that too wide smile and tell her to come closer. She even held onto them when she was with the League, being trained and broken and molded into the killer she is now. She used to tell Nyssa about them when they were alone together. She used to promise herself that if she ever made it home, she was going to make sure that tradition continued. Bring her family back together. Make things better with Laurel. Maybe even show Nyssa what it meant to have warmth and love in a family.

She knows, logically, that none of what has happened or will happen will make those memories somehow less real. Those Christmas Eve parties were real. They happened. She really did live there. But it does change them. It shatters something. She used to think of those family parties and think to herself, _That's when I was happy. That's when I was normal._

Now she looks back and has to think, _I guess we were never normal at all._

It's like her safety net has been taken away. Even when she had nothing, she had those memories of when she was free and full of joy. When her family was just a family and she was just a girl.

 _I could've been anyone,_ she used to think to herself.

Except as it turns out, no, she couldn't have been. She may not be a firstborn daughter, but she is still a member of this messed up family. There was never any point where she was just like everyone else. She never could have been just anyone. She's a Drake. She's always been a Drake. She's always been an _Ellard._

A long line of sad girls.

She looks over at Laurel one more time, still searching for a reaction. Laurel still looks mostly unfazed, but she's twisting at her wedding rings now. It's a miniscule reaction but it's enough for Dean to reach over and place his hand on the back of her neck, massaging her neck and shoulders. She doesn't move away from him this time.

''How is that even possible?'' Sara asks because obviously no one else is going to.

Hanna doesn't have an answer for that Dean is the one who says, almost reluctantly, ''Hazel.''

She looks at him. ''Hazel,'' she repeats dumbly.

''Your ancestor,'' he says. ''The one who started all this.''

''I know who she is,'' she says, voice clipped. ''That doesn't make any sense. She started this back in the 1500s. How can she still be alive in 2016?''

''Witches can live for a long time if they have enough power,'' says Laurel. When both of the Moretti siblings shoot her a mildly surprised look, she manages a tiny smile. ''Married to a Winchester,'' she reminds them. ''I know a little about a lot.''

''It would make sense,'' Sam chimes in. ''Hazel doesn't have a sonic scream herself, right? She had to use her daughter's. Maybe something's going down or she's in some kind of trouble and she needs the scream again. You're the reigning champ,'' he says to Laurel. ''You'd be her first pick.''

Sara has to admit that does make a sick sort of sense. Just one problem. ''Hazel's dead.''

''How can you be sure of that?''

''Because her ashes are in a sealed box on Great Aunt Faye's property in Maine.''

Now that Laurel has a reaction to. ''What?''

Sara's shoulders sag. She had not exactly been expecting to get into this today. ''Hazel's ashes are still in the family,'' she says. ''They've been passed down. Aunt Natasha inherited them when she took over the Amnesty Bay property after Faye died. She's back in Portland now, but Bo's still up at the house. I talked to him. He said he buried the ashes under the concrete when he was redoing the back deck because they were creeping him out.''

''Well, that...'' Laurel frowns. ''Certainly sounds like something he would do.''

''Hazel is dead,'' Sara says again. ''Dead, dead, dead, and our weird hippie cousin is meditating and doing, like weird yoga on top of her ashes.''

''Bo's not weird,'' Laurel says. ''He just lives his life differently than we do.''

''He tried to get me to do reiki yoga with him on the morning of your funeral,'' Dean says.

''He offered to adjust my aura,'' Sam adds. ''For five hundred bucks.''

Yep, that tracks.

100% something Bodhi Sage Drake, their cousin who lives in the woods and has a girlfriend named Clover would do. Last time Sara caught up with him, he claimed to be both a ''professional forager'' and a ''weed doula,'' which is apparently someone who helps you get through your first high and then you pay them a ridiculous amount of money. She still doesn't think that's an actual thing. Sounds more like a con artist you pay to steal some of your weed.

''He was probably trying to help,'' Laurel says, even as the corners of her lips tick up into a barely there hint of a smile. ''He's harmless.''

''He added me to the family email chain,'' Dean grumbles.

''Which was super nice of him!''

''He likes you,'' Sara says. ''Nobody else in our family would've added you to the Drake family email chain. I'm not even part of that email chain. And I am _literally a Drake_.''

''I could have lived without being a part of it,'' he says. ''I didn't need to read all about Valerie's experience with her first colonic.''

That also tracks.

''What exactly is a colonic?'' Mattie asks, earning himself a deeply horrified look from his sister. ''Because there were a few cheerleaders at my school who swore by them. I think, like, a Kardashian told them to do it or something?''

Sara slips her eyes over to Hanna, whose eyes have widened. She's shaking her head at them, seemingly begging them to keep their mouths shut and allow him to retain his innocence surrounding colonics.

Sam is the one who takes pity on the poor boy, visibly stifling a smirk and clapping a hand down onto his shoulder. ''When's the last time you two had a real meal? How about we get you something to eat?''

Mattie shrugs, but his eyes light up at the prospect of food.

Hanna is more reserved. ''You don't have to feed us. We can - ''

''We're not planning on poisoning you, if that's what you're worried about,'' Dean tells her. ''Go inside. There's leftover soup in the fridge. Eat it up because no one else is going to. My kid hates soup.''

''She doesn't hate it,'' Laurel tries. ''She just prefers to eat with her hands whenever possible.''

''Come on,'' Sam holds his hand out for Hanna to take. ''It's not a big deal. We feed everyone. Nobody's died yet. Any food allergies?''

''Um.'' Reluctantly, Hanna accepts his hand and allows him to help her to her feet. ''Shellfish. Mattie hates mushrooms.''

Mattie nods in confirmation. ''They grow in shit. Did you know that?''

''Okay,'' Sam says easily. ''Hard to fault that logic.'' He ushers them both over to the door, making sure they're both inside the house before he throws a look over his shoulder.

The look probably means something, but Sara doesn't speak Winchester so he mostly just looks constipated to her. She waits until he's inside before she turns back to Dean and Laurel. She immediately has to take an instinctive step back. They're both looking at her with their arms crossed, identical looks on their faces. It's - well, A) creepy. And B) ...more intimidating than she would like to admit. ''Whoa.'' She manages a chuckle. ''I feel like I just got caught sneaking in past curfew.''

The _not angry, just disappointed_ looks continue.

''All right, quit it,'' she orders. ''You're freaking me out.''

''Is there something you'd like to tell me?'' Laurel asks calmly.

Sara sighs, shoulders dropping, smile slipping off her lips. ''After you told me about everything Mom said, I...I called her.'' She doesn't know why that makes her feel so small. Guilty, even. It's her mother. She can talk to her anytime she wants. Nobody told her to cut her out of her life permanently.

Laurel told her the opposite actually. Assured her that nothing had to change between her and Mom if she didn't want it to. ''I don't want you to lose her,'' she had said. ''Not because of me.''

Sara, angry and indignant, had squared her shoulders and said, ''I didn't lose her. She lost me.''

And yet.

She still called her mother the very next day. ''I wanted to know more,'' she explain. ''About who we are. Where we came from. She told me to talk to Aunt Natasha. Nat's been researching our family ever since she found out about the curse. She knows everything there is to know about it.''

Laurel licks her lips and exchanges a quick glance with her husband. Oh, okay, cool, so they do that wordless communication thing too. That's not maddening or anything. ''You never mentioned - ''

''I was going to,'' Sara says. ''I promise. I just wanted to have all the facts first. I didn't want to get your hopes up.''

''Get my hopes up?''

''I wanted to see if there was a way to get you out of this.''

''Get me out of - ''

''Take away the scream.''

Laurel doesn't have the reaction to that Sara had been expecting. She looks surprised, but she also looks...hurt. ''You... You want to take it away?''

Dean doesn't exactly look happy with that either. ''What makes you think that's your decision to make?''

''It's not,'' Sara says firmly. It's not his either, for that matter. ''I just thought...'' She wanted to help. It's not like Laurel ever asked for this. It's not like she _wants_ it. It's scaring her. She can see that. This thing is powerful and uncontrolled. It is literally a curse. Why would she want to keep it? ''It's hurting her,'' she tries. ''It's _hurting_ her.'' She looks to Laurel for confirmation. ''Isn't it?''

''Does it matter?'' Laurel's voice sounds tight and slightly out of breath. When they both look over to her, she's not looking at them. She looks uncomfortable and unwell, lurching unsteadily over to Hanna's vacated chair and collapsing into it. ''I'm fine,'' she says, cutting Dean off when he starts to say her name. She offers them both a weak smile. ''I just need to sit down for a minute.'' She takes in a few trembling breaths. ''You can't just get rid of a curse, Sara,'' she gets out. ''That's not how this works.''

Irritatingly, Sara doesn't have a rebuttal to that. That's exactly what Aunt Nat said. ''All right,'' she relents. ''Maybe that's a dead end. Nat's been searching for a loophole with the curse ever since Edie got hers. There's nothing so far. But she did tell me all about Hazel and Alice.''

Laurel, one hand clutching at her right side, looks up sharply at the name. ''Alice?''

''Hazel's daughter,'' Sara says. ''According to Nat, Alice was only about fifteen or sixteen when she killed her mother's former coven. She only did it because Hazel forced her to. It was what she was raised to do. It was all she knew. The massacre,'' she starts, then stops. It feels wrong to call it a massacre. She knows that's technically what it was, but it paints Alice in such a bad light. Hazel was an evil, insatiable witch. The coven wasn't much better. From all the information Nat had gathered over the years, they were a powerful but ultimately foolish group of heinous, Satan worshipping douchebags. They were every evil witch stereotype rolled up into one group of overdramatic, bloodthirsty morons who thought they could play God. This entire thing started with a tangled web of horrible people.

In Sara's opinion, the only real victim was Alice. She never asked to be born, to spend sixteen years being used, abused, and trained to be a killer. She was taught she was nothing more than a weapon. Sara knows that feeling well. A knife is just a knife until you put it in the wrong hands. Alice never had a chance.

Or at least that _had_ been her opinion. Right until this moment. Now she's wondering if Alice was the victim or a willing perpetrator.

''It happened around this time of year,'' Sara continues. ''Hazel gave the orders. Alice followed them. The whole thing was over in about ten minutes. There were thirteen members of the coven. She killed twelve. One guy got away. There's no explanation for how. A few days later, he tracked them down and killed Hazel.''

Laurel's brows furrow. ''Just Hazel?''

''Nat's never been able to figure out why he spared Alice,'' Sara says. ''Just that he did. There's not much about Alice on any records. She lived, got married, had children, but there's no real record of what kind of life she lived. There's also no record of her death.''

It clicks for Dean instantly. He stands up straighter, jaw clenching, eyes darkening.

''If witches can live for centuries,'' she starts.

''Maybe this is her,'' he finishes.

''Right, except that Alice already has a sonic scream,'' Laurel cuts in. ''Why would she need mine?''

''Maybe there is a way to get rid of it,'' Sara proposes. ''Maybe she lost hers. Or maybe someone took it from her. It's been a long time. Anything could have happened.''

''She did tell you she wants what's hers,'' Dean says to Laurel, his voice low and calm.

At that, Sara goes rigid. She looks back and forth between them, waiting for one of them to explain what the hell that means. Nothing. ''Hold up.'' She grasps onto Dean's sleeve, forcing him to look at her. ''What are you talking about?'' She turns her alarmed gaze to Laurel. ''She told you that? You've spoken to her? When did this happen?''

Dean is the one who answers, ''Yesterday.''

''Yester...'' Sara's lips tighten in frustration. ''No one told me about this.''

''It's not - '' Laurel stops. She moves a hand to the back of her neck and closes her eyes. ''It doesn't matter,'' she tries, which is fucking absurd because of course this matters.

''How does this not matter?'' Sara questions, unable to keep the complete disbelief out of her voice. ''If this witch is contacting you - ''

''Can you just drop it?'' Laurel snaps out. ''I don't want to talk about it.''

An unpleasant silence follows the outburst, punctuated by a gust of cold autumn air. The dead leaves on the lawn swirl together, picked up by the breeze, scratching along the porch. The outright rejection stings, maybe bruises her ego a little, but concern is the number one thing that crops up. That was an awfully uncharacteristic eruption for Laurel. It was more of a Sara thing to do. Sara looks over at Dean.

He looks just as thrown as her. ''Laur,'' he says her name with extreme caution. ''Sweetheart.''

''I'm sorry,'' she says quickly. She clears her throat and raises her eyes to them. ''I'm sorry. I'm just tired. And my head is pounding.'' She sighs. ''You heard Hanna. I'm connected to this witch. I had a dream about her yesterday. Only it wasn't...'' She trails off, mouth working silently for a second before giving up. ''I'll tell you the rest later.''

Sara and Dean exchange a vastly worried look. Ultimately, Sara nods. ''Sure. Whenever you're ready.''

''I should go talk to the kids,'' Dean says. ''With any luck, they can give us a description of this woman and we can cross reference it with any info Natasha has on Alice's appearance.'' With some trepidation, he steps into Laurel's space to place a hand on her shoulder. ''I'll bring you an Advil, okay?'' He bends down to kiss her forehead gently. It looks more like a fever check than an actual sign of affection. He leaves them reluctantly, pausing only to send Sara a tight lipped but surprisingly encouraging smile.

Laurel already looks apologetic and full of regret. She leans back in her chair and brings her hands up to massage her temples. ''I'm sorry.''

Sara waves it off. ''That's okay.''

''No,'' Laurel insists. ''No, it's not. You're trying to help. I shouldn't - This is just...a lot. All of this.''

No arguments there. ''It is.''

''I'm trying to...'' She looks over at the remnants of her garden. ''I'm trying.''

''I know you are.'' It's the truth. It's not like it's been some big secret that Laurel has been majorly struggling since her return. It's been impossible to ignore. She has been trying so hard to come home, to be the Laurel they lost, but it's been like watching someone fumble around in the dark, searching for a light source that isn't there.

She _died._ She died and they put her in the ground and people mourned her and brought her flowers and built her a monument and started talking about her in past tense. That Laurel, the woman they painted murals for, is still gone. You don't get to die and come back the same. You can't pick up where you left off. The dead stay dead. They are not meant to come back. Sara knows this. She _knows_ this.

She grabs one of the empty chairs and pulls it over to Laurel, sitting down across from her. ''So am I,'' she admits. She wants to reach out and touch her, but she doesn't. ''This is all new to me too. We're learning together.'' She smiles the biggest and brightest smile she can muster up. ''Maybe that's the one good thing about this mess. At least we're together. We haven't been...''

What is the end of that sentence? She was going to say _we haven't been together since_ but she's forgotten how the rest goes. When were they together last? When was the last time they were able to be together with no pain, no tension, no awkwardness, no lies, no grief? When was the last time they were able to be sisters? No distance, nothing between them pushing them apart, just them, the way they were. She could say she doesn't remember but of course she does. She's thought about it every single day for the last ten years.

It was August, 2006.

It wasn't the Thanksgiving before the boat because Laurel spent that weekend in Lake Tahoe at the Merlyn lake house with Oliver and Tommy and some of their friends and Mom and Dad were in Cabo so Sara spent the long weekend getting drunk with her roommate and eating tacos on Venice Beach.

It wasn't that last Christmas either because Sara spent the entire winter break trying to figure out if her sister's boyfriend was flirting with her (he was) and if he meant what he was saying (he did). Then, on New Year's Eve, Laurel and Oliver got in this huge fight at Max Fuller's party because she thought he was ogling Max's fiancée (he was) and instead of going after Laurel, Sara stayed at that stupid party with stupid Oliver and at stupid midnight she stupidly let him kiss her and then she stupidly made out with him on stupid Max Fuller's stupid waterbed.

August, 2006. Ten years ago. Over ten years ago. That was the last time Sara was with her sister.

''I'm glad I'm here now,'' she says, though she feels like she should say more. She looks over at the kitchen window just in time to see Dean duck away. ''We should get inside,'' she says. Neither one of them moves to get up. ''You're cold.''

Just as she is mentally preparing herself to get up and head inside for another round of exposition, Laurel reaches out and places one of her cold hands on Sara's knee. ''Sar-Bear,'' she says, and Sara freezes at the sound of the childhood nickname. ''I _am_ glad you're here.'' Laurel gives her this soft, serene smile that takes her breath away. ''I want you to know that. It's been a long time. I'm happy we're together.''

Something about the tone of Laurel's voice, sweet and sincere but still somehow apprehensive and full of melancholia, cuts her right down to the bone. Suddenly she feels like crying. Instead she clears her throat, smirks, and says, ''What about Ollie? You happy he's here?''

''Oh,'' says Laurel. ''Ollie.'' She chuckles and then lets out a sound halfway between an exasperated groan and a tired sigh. ''We'll see how that goes.''

''What do you think the chances are that we'll have to break up a slap fight between Dean and Oliver?''

''I'm not so worried about a physical confrontation. I'm more worried about a time consuming sarcasm rally.''

''Hmm.'' Sara leans back in her chair. ''You wanna make a game out of it?''

''A game?''

''Yeah. Let's bet on it,'' Sara says. ''How much money you got?''

''Uh, none,'' Laurel says with a raised brow. ''We're poor now.''

''Hey!'' Sara throws her arms out with a goofy grin. ''Me too! Let me tell you: time travel does _not_ pay well.'' She crosses one leg over the other. ''All right, so, let's just do a dollar. Dean versus Oliver. Whoever gets the best dig in wins. Deal?'' She holds out her hand.

Laurel only hesitates for a second before she grabs hold of Sara's hand to shake. ''Deal,'' she says and then immediately follows it up with a yelp of, ''I call Dean!''

Sara blinks. ''...Damn it.''

Laurel, looking incredibly satisfied with herself, relaxes back in her chair. ''I know where my bread is buttered.''

''I bet he butters your bread,'' Sara mutters, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Laurel sputters, then blushes, and then, finally, laughs. ''What were you going for there?''

''I dunno. Something dirty.''

She laughs. Really laughs. She throws her head back and giggles. Her pale cheeks redden, body shaking with laughter, lips pulled back into a smile.

Sara wants to pause the world. Just for a second. She has no idea what the outcome will be here, if she'll walk away from this mess with her big sister alive and intact, but what she knows right now is that her sister is laughing, and she wishes she could take a picture.

Laurel does manage to pull herself together, but she still has that smile on her lips, that specific smile of hers that Sara never thought she would see again. In the ensuing quiet, the comfortable space between them, Sara feels like this is her moment to do something. Tell her all those things she never got the chance to say before. Everything she's thought about over the past seven months. But she doesn't. She looks over at the house, peering through the sliding glass door for any prying eyes. When she looks back, Laurel has her head cocked to the side and she is unnervingly still, staring at Sara. It's not an unkind look, but it feels overwhelming somehow. It's like she's digging into her with just her eyes.

Sara tries to laugh it off. ''Why are you looking at me like that?''

''Oh, I'm sorry,'' Laurel straightens up. ''Was I staring? I'm still trying to get used to... You look different,'' she admits softly. ''Have I told you that? You look so different from the last time I saw you.''

''I do?''

''You look lighter,'' Laurel says. ''Sure of yourself. Like you're right where you're supposed to be.''

''Of course I am,'' Sara says. ''I'm with you.''

''Well, that is very sweet and very cheesy, but...'' Laurel smiles again. It looks sad this time. ''That's not what I mean.'' Her sad smile morphs into a small smirk. As if she has just figured out some big secret. ''You've found something with them, haven't you? Your team. You've found a home.''

Sara means to laugh. She means to laugh and say ''no, dummy, you're my home,'' but she can't. The truth is that she's not sure what she's found with her crew. She's not sure what they mean to her or what the mission means to her but she knows it all means an awful lot. It's a strange life, a strange job, but it's hers. This is something she was chosen for. She didn't take this from anyone. She wasn't the second choice because Laurel wasn't available. She feels balanced there. Less of a third wheel. She's not an invader; some random character thrown into an established story. It's her story. She's not just killing time. She has a purpose. When she's on the waverider with her team, her band of weirdos and misfits and extras, she feels like she means something. Like she, Sara Lance, belongs. She wants to be with Laurel and Dad and Mary and even Mom and Dean, but she needs to be on that waverider with those misfits.

''I don't know,'' she says, because she cannot possibly begin to verbalize all of that. ''They're weird.''

Laurel counters that effortlessly. ''You're weird,'' she says and smiles innocently when Sara swats at her. ''You've found a place where you fit,'' she says. ''Maybe you're all weird, but you're doing something important. I think that's great. I think it suits you.'' She shrugs her shoulders at Sara's questioning look. ''You've always been restless. You're not one to put down roots. This is perfect for you.'' She goes quiet for a minute but keeps her eyes on Sara, inspecting her without a word. Then, quietly, ''Grown up.'' It's a soft declaration. ''That's how you look. You look so grown up. I missed that. I don't just mean over the past seven months. I mean over the past ten years. We've lost a lot of time together, you and I. I'm sorry for that.''

Sara swallows. ''None of that was your fault.''

''I know,'' Laurel says easily. ''But I'm still sorry it happened. I'm sorry I missed seeing you grow up.''

Sara thinks she should reciprocate that. _I'm sorry I missed your wedding,_ she should say. _I'm sorry I wasn't there when Mary was born. I'm sorry I wasn't there to see you start your life or to help you build it or rebuild it or rebuild it again. I'm sorry I got on that boat and left you behind and wrecked it all. I'm sorry I chose him when I should've chosen you._ But the words don't come. She can't get them out. Can't bring herself to say these things aloud. It's not that she's not sorry. It's that there aren't enough words. There aren't enough apologies. It would take a lifetime just for her to be able to explain how truly sorry she is for what she did. For what happened after. Who she became because of that one selfish choice she made and the domino effect it had on everyone she loved.

''I wish we could've been together then,'' she says honestly. ''But we're together now. And we're still young. We have plenty of growing left to do.'' It doesn't feel like that's enough to make Laurel feel better. She feels like there should be more to say. There's always more left to say. Always words left unsaid and that heavy, unfinished feeling.

Laurel's smile is halfhearted at best, thrown on her face sloppily. ''I'm going to stay out here for a few,'' she says, after a beat. ''If that's okay. I just need some breathing room.''

''Oh, sure. I'll just - ''

''You can stay,'' Laurel cuts in when Sara starts to rise to her feet. ''I can breathe with you.''

Sara hesitates for just a minute, and then she settles back in her chair, and she stays.

Eventually, Dean brings out a blanket and some Advil for Laurel and two mugs of coffee. Laurel's probably has too much sugar and a splash of that flavored coffee creamer she likes because he's her husband and it makes sense that he knows how she likes her coffee. Sara's has no cream and a small spoonful of sugar, just the way she likes it. She doesn't remember ever telling him how she likes her coffee or even preparing a mug in front of him, but mysteriously knowing how everyone likes their coffee is the least confusing and enigmatic thing about Dean Winchester so she just goes with it. He does make a damn good cup of coffee.

In the companionable, comfortable, relaxing silence, Laurel angles her chair toward the backyard, away from Sara, and watches the birds in the apple tree. It's a nice day out today. Something of an oddity for Star City in November. There are only a few clouds in the sky and the sun is shining determinedly overhead. It's not warm because there's still that ever present chilly breeze coming in from the direction of the ocean, but it's not rainy or foggy or otherwise soggy and gray. It's almost a shock to the system. This city is so often gloomy that it's easy to forget blue skies can happen here.

Sara has no real interest in the weather. She doesn't care about the sunshine or the birds. She only has eyes for Laurel. She turns her chair out to face the remains of the garden and that eerie looking apple tree, but she watches her out of the corner of her eye.

Laurel, lifting her mug to her lips with hands she pretends aren't trembling with bone deep exhaustion she cannot run from. Laurel, worryingly pale with dark circles under her hollowed out eyes. Laurel, with her chapped, colorless lips and her blown out pupils. Laurel, frail and gaunt, even more so in the daylight.

 _Rot,_ Sara thinks to herself with a twinge of hysteria. Her sister is rotting.

How long until her fingernails fall off? Until her hair starts to fall out in clumps? Until her skin starts to blacken and peel away? Until the sage they burn can no longer cover the sickening smell of rot? How long until this fraying spell leeches all the life out of her and they're just left with dust and bones and fragments of the woman they tried and failed to save?

Back in May, when she first found out about Laurel, Rip told her that it had to be this way. It was fate. Meant to be. A fixed timeline. Laurel's death was unfortunate, a tragedy, but necessary. No way to go back. No way to save her without damning everyone else. A butterfly effect.

She's wondered, of course, how much of that was bullshit or assumption. If maybe someone had given him the wrong information. If he had misunderstood. If he was lying to her. If he was wrong.

Now, here, in the harsh light of day, sitting next to her dying, suffering sister, she wonders if he was right all along.

What if all this is happening not because of the mistakes of a desperate witch but because the universe is trying to right itself? What if by trying to keep her here, prolonging her pain, they're not helping but hurting? What if they're not supposed to save her? What if this isn't a second chance but a lesson in letting go? Is she willing to take that chance?

Sara looks over at Laurel and doesn't even try to hide the fact that she's staring. She looks at her now and then she flashes back to earlier, in the kitchen, watching her smile at her daughter. She flashes back to August of 2006, sitting on the beach, laughing. The first time she laid eyes on her when she came back in September of 2013, lurking in the shadows across the street, stunned into an awed, breathless silence at the sight of a baby on Laurel's hip. The first time she woke up after the Lazarus Pit and after she got her soul back and all she could see was Laurel. Two weeks ago when she walked into the Arrowcave and her whole world was just standing there looking at her.

It's a stupid question.

Of course she's going to take that chance. Even if the timeline could collapse. Even if the universe could unravel. She has to at least try. She is not the good sister. She doesn't do the sensible thing. She's the selfish one. She wants what she wants whether it's good for her or not and takes whatever isn't nailed down and makes choices she'll regret in the morning.

Rip should've known that.

.

.

.

 **September, 2013**

 _She shouldn't be here._

 _It's too dangerous to come home. That's why she never has. Starling City should be nothing but a memory. It's better for everyone that way._

 _Here she is anyway; a ghost haunting the city she once knew, slipping through the streets unseen and unheard._

 _Sara pulls the baseball cap down to hide her eyes and bounces on the balls of her feet impatiently. Avalon Park, the Starling suburb Laurel lives in now, is too quiet for her taste. It's calm and peaceful, full of normal people and their normal families, laughing together without the sting of loss. It's a nice neighborhood, but it's making her jittery. She peeks out from behind the big oak tree and takes another look at her sister's house._

 _It's not what she was expecting. There's no front porch. Laurel used to talk about wanting a front porch like the one their grandparents had. It doesn't have enough windows. It's a small house on a corner lot with a fully fenced backyard, a sizeable front lawn, and a path cutting through the grass and running up to the front stoop. There's a big living room window and the curtains are wide open, but the house is dark and still on the inside. No one's home._

 _The house is not what Sara had been expecting, but there are flowers outside (rose bushes and hydrangeas and something else that is bright and lovely) and that is Laurel. She loves flowers. Always does her best to keep a bouquet or two around. Flowers bloom everywhere she goes. They practically bloom right out of her chest._

 _Sara smiles to herself, swallowing the melancholia. Laurel and flowers is something so achingly familiar it makes her want to cry. She shakes herself out of it and checks the time. Maybe she should take another lap around the block. Just to make sure the neighborhood is secure. She slips her ear buds in for appearances and fixes her hat once more before setting off. If anyone were to look at her, all they would see is a regular unassuming jogger. Nothing suspicious about that. Lots of people jog._

 _She watches the neighborhood as she goes. She studies; spies in windows, cranes her neck to catch glimpses of backyards, memorizes names on mail boxes, license plate numbers, and faces, and she is gone before they even have a chance to understand they are being scrutinized. She's looking for trouble. She'd rather not find any, but you can never be too careful. She wants to make sure this place is safe. She wants to make sure Laurel is safe._

 _There are no prowlers on Sherwood Lane today. There's a man coming home from work, a middle aged couple sitting out on their front porch enjoying a glass of wine after dinner, a woman watering her lawn while her dog bounces around her. Two cars roll on down the road. Two teenage girls pass by her as she runs, talking and laughing and free in a way Sara can barely remember. At the house next to Laurel's, there is another teenage girl sitting out on the front stoop with her yappy, decrepit looking dog. There is no danger here. There is no danger. It is an oddity. She has almost forgotten what this feels like. To be safe._

 _She continues to scan the street as she jogs, but she doesn't expect any problems. She's mostly doing it out of habit and to calm her nerves._

 _Truthfully, she doesn't know why she chose to come to Laurel first. She should have gone to her father. Stayed in the city, in the crowds, watched him from afar. It would have been easier. She didn't betray her father. She let him down, broke his heart, left him and Mom and they were ruined because of it, but she didn't betray him. She betrayed Laurel. How is she supposed to look at her after what she's done?_

 _It would have been easier to blend into the crowd in the city too. The calm of the suburbs, the empty sidewalks and open space... It is nowhere she belongs. It is not where she fits._

 _Laurel does, though. She may be a city girl - with her stylish rent controlled apartment, her favourite bodega, and numbers for all the takeout places that are open after midnight programmed into her phone - but all she's ever really wanted is peace. A family of her own. A house full of flowers. Sara hopes Laurel has found that here with her rose bushes and her front stoop. And her husband. Because that's a thing. She has a husband now._

 _Sara hadn't been altogether surprised when she dug up that info. Six years is a long time. Laurel has a life to live, with or without Sara. Of course she's married. It wasn't surprising to learn that. It was a little surprising to learn that it wasn't Tommy. He's been in love with her almost as long as Oliver has. Or. He was. ...Maybe it's a good thing he wasn't the husband. That would have made the loss unbearable._

 _She does have to wonder, regardless of who the husband is, what Oliver thinks of Laurel being married._

 _Once she has jogged around the block again, she slows down to a walk to catch her breath. The driveway of Laurel's house, she notices, is still empty. Holy shit, maybe she should've stayed in the city and staked out the precinct to check on Dad. Clearly her sister is still the overachieving workaholic she always was. Nice to know some things stay the same._

 _Sara checks the time on her phone again. She can't hang around much longer or someone is going to notice that she's been casing the place for the past half hour. The teenage girl next door has shuffled inside with her grouchy dog, but there could be any number of gossipy old ladies watching her through their kitchen windows. Ten more minutes. She'll give it ten more minutes and then she'll go check on Dad._

 _She doesn't even have to wait five._

 _Just as she is sliding her burner phone back into her pocket, a silver Jeep comes from behind her, drives past her, slows, and then pulls into the driveway of 244 Sherwood Lane. She stops in her tracks. A rush of anxiety floods through her and she has to swallow hard. She feels, abruptly, like she may not be ready for this._

 _She came home when she heard about the earthquake because she had to make sure her family was safe. She won't stay, she can't, but she had to make sure. Over five hundred people died. One of her oldest friends is in the ground because his own father committed a horrific act of domestic terrorism. She had to come home. She has read the list of identified victims three times. She checked to make sure Dad and Laurel were both alive. She still had to come back. She needs to see them both in the flesh before she can leave._

 _Except now that she's here, with her best friend in the world only steps away from her, she is terrified. She's afraid that if she sees her, she is going to forget all the reasons why she can't stay, tear across the road, grab onto Laurel, and never let go. She takes a deep breath, puts her head down, stuffs her hands into her pockets, and approaches the house._

 _The husband gets out of the Jeep first and Sara finds herself resisting the urge to smirk. She knows nothing about him. She doesn't know his name or if he's worthy of her sister but she has to admit that, purely from an aesthetic standpoint, her big sis has fucking superb taste in men. Men are weak and not to be trusted, but some of them are damn fine to look at and this one is like a solid 8.5._

 _He is still not what she ever would have expected._

 _Laurel, when it comes to her personal life, prefers cleaner cut dudes. Men like Oliver and Tommy and maybe even Carter Bowen. Not without their vices, but well equipped with charm, a certain kind of elegance, table manners instilled in them by their nannies and maids, their prim and proper mothers, and a knowledge of which fork is which._

 _You know, because Laurel can be kind of a snob._

 _Or, all right, maybe that's not the right way to put it. She's classy. Yeah, that sounds better. She's a classy broad. She's not a mess like Sara. She prefers less trouble, more charisma in a man._

 _This guy..._

 _She obviously can't tell what kind of table manners he has but there's something about him that says trouble. He looks like he might be older by a bit, but that's not it. He's wearing flannel, which is definitely weird for a Laurel guy, but that's not it either. There's something about the way he carries himself that is extremely familiar to Sara in a way she wishes it wasn't._

 _...Maybe he's a cop? Or a solider?_

 _She supposes that could make sense. Dad's a cop and Laurel has always been a Daddy's Girl. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility._

 _Sara is so busy inspecting her new brother-in-law that she almost misses the passenger side door opening. It's her voice that she hears first. She's far enough away that it's muffled by the distance but close enough that she can make out what she's saying, but what she's saying doesn't really matter. All that matters is that this is her sister's voice._

 _''We just pulled into the driveway now,'' Laurel says. ''Oh, I know, traffic was crazy. I think there was an accident on the Star Bridge. It's a parking lot.''_

 _Sara has not heard that voice in six years. Sometimes she dreams of it. Sometimes she dreams of all of them. But the voices are never quite right in her head anymore and dreams are just dreams. This is real. As she gets closer, she takes out her own phone and holds it to her ear, partly so she doesn't look like she's staring and partly to conceal her identity as much as possible._

 _''No, not really,'' Laurel's voice says. ''My dad took us out to dinner. ...Yeah, it's already past her bedtime so I think we're just going to get her into bed and then I have to catch up on work. What about you?'' She gets out of the car, a ray of the setting sun catching the wedding ring on her finger, and Sara tries, but she can't swallow the lump in her throat._

 _It's been so long._

 _She's so close. She could walk across the street right now and hug her. Tell her everything. She has so much to tell her. She has so many apologies to make. She tightens her grip on the phone and clenches her other fist, physically restraining herself from running into her arms._

 _''I am not always working,'' Laurel says to whoever she's on the phone with._

 _On the other side of the Jeep, her husband laughs._

 _''Okay, I'm working a lot right now,'' she admits. ''But you know I have a lot to catch up on. I just started at the DA's office.''_

 _''Yeah, but you know what they say, babe,'' her husband says, resting his hands on top of the car, looking over at her. ''All work and no play...''_

 _''No fair, you guys are ganging up on me,'' Laurel smiles. There is an edge to her smile, something Sara can't quite put her finger on, and signs of fatigue in her eyes, but if she's been working as much as her husband and phone buddy seem to be implying then she's likely just tired. What matters is that she smiles. She even laughs._

 _Sara puts her phone away and crouches down like she's tying her shoe. Just in case she starts blubbering. That would probably be suspicious._

 _Laurel looks... Not the same. Her hair's different, her body's changed, her makeup and clothes aren't the same. But she's still Laurel. Older now, all grown up and settled, but still unmistakably Laurel. It hurts to look at her. It hurts even more to look away._

 _Sara does her best to discreetly keep her eyes on them. Laurel is still chatting away but the husband has moved over to the back of the vehicle, pulling open the back door to retrieve something from the backseat. Sara is not all that interested in him so she almost misses it. She starts to look away, back to Laurel, only to immediately snap her eyes back to him when she realizes just what he's pulling out of the backseat._

 _It would seem she missed something when she was digging up info about her family. She missed something big. It's her fault. She didn't look that closely. Part of her didn't want to know about all the joys and sorrows she missed out on. She had not been expecting this._

 _He's holding a baby. Her sister had a baby. Laurel's a mom._

 _She's an aunt._

 _She's not sure why she's so shocked by that. Laurel used to talk about her grand plan for life and kids were always part of that plan. It's been six years. Life does go on after loss._

 _The husband lifts the baby into his arms with ease, murmuring softly and smiling, and the baby - a girl, Sara thinks, just judging by the features - stares back at him sleepily. Sara can't be sure how old the baby is - maybe a year, slightly younger possibly - but she's... She's so beautiful. She looks like Laurel. That's the first thing that pops into her head. She's sure there must be traces of the dad in there, but all she sees is Laurel's eyes and Laurel's nose._

 _Breathless, Sara stands up straight and stares. She just stares. She doesn't know what else to do. She forgets herself for a moment, standing there, right across from her sister. From her niece._

 _The baby, who is currently, from the looks of it, slobbering and gnawing on her dad's shoulder, stares back at her. And smiles._

 _Sara is more thrown by that than she should be._

 _In all fairness, she is not doing the greatest job of being stealthy. She's basically just standing here. She's usually better at this. It's normally so easy and effortless for her to go unnoticed, to melt into the world around her, to disappear. She's off her game right now. There is a part of her that wants to be seen. Part of her wants Laurel to look over at her and see her and recognize her and then they'll hug and cry and Laurel will ask her where she's been and she'll bring her into the house and make her a cup of tea and then Sara will finally, finally be home._

 _She takes in a gulp of air and turns away from them. That can't happen. As casually as she can manage, she starts stretching. Because joggers stretch. It's a very normal thing to do. Maybe. She thinks. She forgets. She wishes Nyssa was here._

 _She glances over her shoulder as she stretches. The husband is walking around the Jeep over to Laurel, baby girl still in his arms. The baby is still looking at Sara._

 _''Hey,'' Laurel says. ''Wish Joanna good luck. It's her first day at her new firm tomorrow and she's freaking out.''_

 _''Kick it in the ass, Jo,'' he says into the phone when she holds it out to him. ''Tomorrow night,'' he adds. ''We're taking you out for dinner.''_

 _''Oooh yeah,'' Laurel agrees, bringing the phone back to her ear. ''We'll get vodka martinis and Indian food. We can gorge ourselves on gulab jamun. You love gulab jamun.'' She laughs again at something her friend says. The next time Sara looks over, she's just finishing up, assuring her friend she's going to do great tomorrow and promising her she'll see her tomorrow. Her smile drops when the phone call ends and she looks, out of nowhere, exhausted and not nearly as cheerful as she was a second ago._

 _The conversation between her and her husband is too soft for Sara to hear so she takes the opportunity to look away from them so it's not quite so obvious that she's stalking them. When she does glance over at them, Laurel's gesturing at something inside the car. He nods and says something that makes Laurel smile again. She holds her arms out to the baby. Her daughter looks at her for a second and then shrieks and throws herself closer to her dad, clutching at his shirt._

 _''Wow,'' Laurel says. ''Hardcore rejection. Hard not to take that one personally.''_

 _He laughs, rubbing the baby's back. ''Come on, Mary. Give your mom a hug. She's had a long day.''_

 _Mary. Sara considers the name. Tries it out in a whisper. Mary. Her niece's name is Mary._

 _Baby Mary is eventually successfully transferred into her mother's arms and Sara watches from across the street as Laurel leans up to peck her husband on the lips before heading up the steps from the driveway to the front path. She's not wearing any shoes and she seems to be struggling with her keys, but the baby seems happy to be tugging at her mother's hair._

 _The husband follows after a minute, carrying a box he's retrieved from the backseat with Laurel's briefcase piled on top, her purse over his shoulder, and her strappy heels dangling from his finger. So. Guess he gets a singular point for chivalry. Whoever he is. ''A whole box of work,'' he says. ''Am I going to be neglected tonight?''_

 _On the front stoop, just turning the key in the lock, Laurel turns to smirk at him. ''Don't worry,'' she calls out, ''if you're a good boy I'll be sure to carve out a few minutes to give you a belly rub.''_

 _He laughs heartily, and then rolls with it. ''A belly rub! I love belly rubs!'' He leaps up the front steps, skipping a step, makes a weird barking noise (because the one thing that never changes about Laurel's taste in men is that she likes goofs) that elicits a shriek of laughter from Laurel, and then all three of them disappear into the house, where Sara cannot get to them._

 _They seem happy. She tries to smile to herself, but it feels halfhearted. She looks down at the sidewalk instead. She should leave. She's seen what she needed to see. Laurel's okay. More than okay from the looks of it. She has a family. A house in a nice neighborhood, a job that's keeping her busy, a husband that makes her laugh, a little girl named Mary. She made it out of her grief alive. She rebuilt._

 _Sara stays rooted to the ground. Maybe, she thinks, there could still be room for her. She watches the house as Laurel appears in the window with Mary on her hip. She's not looking out the window, attention elsewhere, but Mary is. Maybe one day, Sara thinks, she could see the inside of that house. She could go in there and just see if maybe, possibly, there could be a place for her. If maybe -_

 _Mary points a tiny chubby hand at the window and she must make a noise because Laurel snaps her head up and looks out the window. Right at Sara._

 _''Shit,'' Sara mumbles. ''Fuck.''_

 _She makes a show of fixing her earbuds and then she hurries away, seconds before the front door open and Laurel steps back out onto the front stoop. It is not her finest moment. Nobody follows her so she thinks she squeaks by without being recognized, but that was not her best work. She is supposed to be better at this sneaky shit. It is literally what she does. Right now, though, she just feels shaky and stumbly and sweaty._

 _Every fiber of her being wants to turn around and race up to that front door. Every single part of her wants to go home. She knows she can't. She knows what will happen if she does. If she reveals herself to her family, she will put them in danger. They'll get caught up in this. They'll get lost. Like her. She can't have that happen._

 _This is not her world anymore. This is not her life. Laurel can't save her from this. Can't be a part of this. She has a family. She has clean hands. Sara is nothing but dirt now._

 _It's best for everyone if she stays dead._

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

Unreality starts as a tingle.

In the back of her neck. In her throat. Deep in her belly. Up and down her spine. Her fingers and toes. Even in, as weird as it sounds, her calves. There is a stiffening of her muscles when the panic seizes her; a sudden tension, an unwelcome cramping in her fingers and her wrists, even momentary paralysis.

Sometimes she starts feeling restless and twitchy and _trapped_ , like she doesn't belong in her own skin, like she's ready to unzip her spine, slither away from her body, and be free at last. If she's lucky, she can head out for a run or go to the gym for a workout and sweat the panic attack away. More often than not, she can't.

Then she starts losing time.

Sometimes it happens all at once. She'll be standing in the kitchen and then she'll be standing in the bathroom, and she'll have no idea how she got there. Or one minute she's alone, working at the dining room table while Dean puts Mary to bed, and the next minute, she's standing out on the back porch and Dean is just stepping outside, asking her what she's doing outside without shoes or a coat. Sometimes it happens in bursts. It's like she lives out a life she doesn't remember in between blinks.

Sometimes, if she's really losing the fight, if there's nothing or no one to anchor herself to, there comes the forgetting. She can forget where she is, who she's with, even who she is, and she's unable to understand what's happening to her or why. That doesn't happen often. Maybe four times during the twenty years she's been living with this. The first time it happened, she was sixteen, her parents were on a cruise, her grandparents dragged her to the emergency room, and she was almost admitted to the psych ward.

Once, when Mary was less than a month old and Laurel was still flooded with hormones, overwhelmed with motherhood, and seriously sleep deprived, she had a panic attack while Dean was out on a midnight diaper run. She wound up in the parking garage, barefoot, wearing only her nightgown. Her neighbor, Mrs. Nassir, and her son Youssef, found her and brought her back up to her apartment. She didn't know who they were, she couldn't tell them her name, couldn't remember where she was, or even that she had a baby. Even once she snapped out of the dissociation, all she could do was cry and shake. They stayed with her, even after she had snapped out of it, until Dean got home.

The crying always happens. And the shaking. Every time. Like clockwork. This horrifying hysteria consumes her, takes her breath away, explodes out of her, and then she melts into a puddle of tears.

She's had people talk to her about panic attacks like they're synonymous with sadness. Like they're just having a crying jag every now and then, a moment of anxiety before a job interview, the baby blues, even that they're something you can talk yourself out of with positive thoughts. That's not what they are for her. They are not always born out of sadness. They're not even always born out of anxiety. They can be brought on by anything. Exhaustion, illness, anger, if she's overworking herself, if she has a migraine. Sometimes there is no trigger at all. It's a crapshoot. That's what makes panic disorder so scary.

Panic attacks, for her, are full body events. It starts with a tingle, then dissociation, and then she shatters and goes to pieces. It's breathlessness and stiff, aching muscles, depersonalization, catastrophizing, a complete and total brain fog she can't get out of, sobbing and shaking until she makes herself sick. They wipe her out, leave her dazed and drained and empty, sore and unsteady sometimes for days after. Her longest recovery period was nine days with no Xanax and three aftershock attacks. Her shortest was four hours with Zoloft, Xanax, and half an Ambien.

The Canary Cry - this brand new one; the bitter inheritance she never asked for - is a lot like a panic attack. It starts in her throat, not a tingle exactly but something close to it. It's like something hot and sticky has gotten clogged in her throat, like someone has forced wet cement into her mouth. The heat spreads down to her belly, her spine, her fingers and toes. Explodes out of her like a firework show gone wrong. It consumes her the same way a panic attack does. It's scary, just like a panic attack. And it hurts. It _hurts._

She can't blame Sara for thinking of it as a sickness. Something they need to stop. She's sure that's something her loved ones have thought about her panic disorder and her depression. It must be tiresome to live with a ticking time bomb like her.

She thinks about that while she's sitting out on the back deck with Sara and the coffee Dean made for her just the way she likes it - sugar and a splash of that salted caramel creamer she likes. She thinks about the similarities between the panic and the screaming. She doesn't mean to let her thoughts go there, but she is not having the best day today. She's just learned that some ancient witch ancestor of hers might be the one doing this to her, she's got two witches in her house eating her soup, her husband lied to her about her health, and she really doesn't feel well. She doesn't feel like vomiting blood or like her wound is going to burst open, but she feels tired and sweaty and weak. She doesn't have the energy to keep her thoughts from wandering.

She's trying to give Mattie and Hanna enough time to eat and settle in before they're bombarded with demands. So she takes her time outside, in the sunshine, with her sister and her coffee. She watches the birds. She drinks her coffee slowly. She tries to enjoy the mild autumn weather, the rain free day, and Sara's steadying presence.

But her mind wanders.

Then she starts to think - What if the reason her panic and her sonic scream are so similar is because they're connected? Ellard women have a long history of depression. Most notably the older ones. The firstborns. The cursed ones.

Great Aunt Faye was a reclusive hoarder. She lived alone, shut away on her sprawling property out in Maine. She rarely left. Once every two years to come visit. She was almost completely cut off from the rest of the world. She never married, though she had a few long term partners. She had two children, a daughter and a son. She voluntarily gave up custody of both children shortly after the birth of her youngest.

Faye's son lived with his father in Boston, probably still lives there, and was never interested in maintaining a relationship with his mother's side of the family, although Grandma used to try when he was a kid. Faye's daughter grew up with paternal grandparents in Texas and spent summers with Grandma and Grandpa in Starling City.

As far as Laurel knows, Faye never even had friends. When she died, the only people at her funeral were family members. Which didn't even include her children. Grandma used to say, ''Oh, that's just how Faye is. She does things in her own way.'' And, you know, yeah, sure. Maybe that's true. Maybe Faye liked the solitary life. Maybe she wasn't cut out for motherhood and she knew that so she opted to give them to their fathers because she knew that was the responsible choice. But...

Laurel remembers Faye as a grumpy, closed off, yet extremely emotional old woman. She was anxious and easily overwhelmed. Crowds were a big one. Too many people or too much noise, or not enough exits close by, made her antsy and agitated. Only once did Grandma ever admit, ''My sister had her difficulties. She loved her children, but she couldn't take care of them. She could barely take care of herself. She wanted a family, but. ...Not everyone can have that. It was best not to overwhelm her.''

Elizabeth, Faye's daughter, had a hard life. She was essentially abandoned by both parents and left to be raised by her grandparents who, according to Grandma, were not the nicest people. Laurel never met her. She never had the chance. Elizabeth was close to the family when she was younger, she kept in touch with her cousins throughout her life and was especially close to Aunt Valerie, but she had her troubles. She spent her life battling addiction, severe mental health issues, and homelessness, in and out of jail and rehab until she died at only 46 of cirrhosis.

Aunt Valerie has spent the past sixteen years in a Valium and Chardonnay induced haze, unable to move past her daughter's death. Even before Edie died, Valerie had her struggles. She had been hospitalized at least three times for depression and suicidal thoughts, once for postpartum psychosis after the birth of her middle child. She's a perfectly nice person, a little out of it, definitely has a tendency to overshare, but there's this deep rooted sadness about her. You can see it in her eyes. In her smile. She's ''never been quite right'' as Mom would say.

Grandma and Aunt Faye's mother, the original Dinah, the woman Laurel has been told she bears a striking resemblance to, was, by all accounts, a beautiful person both inside and out. She had the prettiest smile. She made the best chocolate cake in the world. Her favourite flowers were gardenias. She smelled slightly of oil paint, gardenias, and cinnamon. She didn't like to sing, but she used to hum all the time. She was, in many ways, a modern woman. Ahead of her time so to speak. She never married her longtime companion and they had, from the sounds of it, an open relationship, both of them periodically involved with other people. Sometimes the same people. They were both artists; spent their summers in France, held all these lavish parties, traveled the world looking for inspiration. When they had children, she chose to raise them mostly by herself, putting down roots first in Gotham, then in Starling, giving them both her last name while he continued his travels and took on more of a fun uncle role.

These are the snippets of Dinah Ellard that Laurel has gotten over the years. Bits and pieces of an unfinished life here and there, mostly from Grandma, once or twice from Faye, sometimes even from Mom and the aunts. When she was younger, Laurel used to think her great grandmother's life sounded like something out of a movie, mysterious and luxurious and romantic. She didn't learn, until she was much older, that if her great grandmother's life was a movie then it was a tragedy.

Dinah was immensely kind, could make friends with anyone, full of wit and wisecracks. She had two left feet, a mean right hook, and the sharpest, quickest sense of humor. She was a wonderful mother, an amazing friend, a beloved partner. She loved and was loved by so many people.

On the eve of her 34th birthday, she put on her favourite dress, her best lipstick, went down to the beach, filled the pockets of her heaviest winter coat with stones, and walked into the water. Left behind an eight year old, a six year old, shell-shocked friends and family, and a broken partner.

And Edie... Poor Edie. She was never even given a chance. Who knows who she would have been.

Laurel has known since she was a kid that mental illness is hereditary and that there are a lot of splotches on the canvas when it comes to the Ellard women. The picture never looked quite as insidious as it does now. The worst suffering has happened to firstborn daughters. What if that's a sign?

This is a curse. You can dress it up however you want. Call it a genetic mutation. Call it power. It's a _curse,_ and curses are meant to hurt. What if the real curse isn't the scream itself but the reason for the screaming? This family is littered with years of agony. Generations of restless women pacing around in the dark wondering what was happening to them and why. Generations of strong women walking into the water because they couldn't find a way to make it stop.

This scream _is_ a sickness. Maybe it is like a parasite. It eats away at their minds, burns holes in their souls, gnaws at the edges of sanity, feasts until there's nothing left.

Laurel thinks, as she's drinking her coffee out on the back deck, that she could almost live with that. If this thing is going to ultimately cost her what sanity she has left, then fine. She can plan for that. Start saving up for long term care for when it gets bad. Prepare Dean and Mary for the inevitability of losing her. At least if it's her, it won't be Sara.

She has only ever been half here anyway, held down by the heavy weight of depression and panic.

 _''You're sick,''_ the witch said. _''You've always been sick.''_

She was right. It has been a daily struggle for her entire life. Thirty-one years of this. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to get lost.

Nevertheless, it's not that simple. It's not that easy. Laurel is not just a firstborn daughter. She has a firstborn daughter. If this is in her, it's in Mary. If this curse contributes to or causes the mental instability that has plagued her and the other women like her in the Ellard line then what does that mean for Mary?

All Laurel has ever wanted for her daughter is _more._ Less hurt. Less pain. Less fear. Just something better. Happiness. Excitement. Joy. The idea of Mary inheriting this suffocating sadness is her worst nightmare. Now she feels like she's being forced to watch that nightmare come true.

Did she do this to her? Did she doom her child? Condemn her daughter to a lifetime of hurt just by giving her life? Is Mary going to grow up and resent her for bringing her into this world?

It may be a dark line of thinking and it's certainly too late to do anything about it now, but if Laurel had known about this curse, if she had been told about what she was, she never would've had children. She would have taken that option off the table from the beginning. She has never regretted Mary until this moment. What an absolutely sickening thought.

The back of her neck tingles. Her fingers cramp up and curl involuntarily. Her stomach does a nauseating flip. Laurel leans down to place her nearly empty mug on the porch because she's starting to lose feeling in her fingers. The coffee is not sitting right in her stomach. She blinks rapidly, staring down at the wooden slats on the deck. She forces herself to breathe. Takes in a shaky gulp of air, holds it, and then releases. She hears Sara say her name. And then -

She catches up to herself in the bedroom.

For a second, everything feels and sounds muffled. All she can hear is a ringing in her ears. Her vision is blurred. She can't feel her own body. It's a floaty, disconnected feeling that lasts about five seconds and then she comes crashing back down into herself and everything slams into her at once. It is panic, dread, fear, anxiety, anger, sadness, and a manic and out of control feeling of hysteria. It comes at her from every direction, smothering her, eating her up until there is nothing left but the bones.

Everything is loud and she feels sweaty and hot and so hypersensitive that even the air on her skin stings. Even the clothes she's wearing feel heavy, like they're pricking at her skin, bruising her, weighing her down.

She looks up. She can't focus her eyes on anything, but she knows that Dean is standing at the bedroom door. His back is to her. She can hear his voice, but it's a low murmur to her, muffled by the panic. ''...nothing you did,'' he's saying. ''Her body's on the fritz, right? She's got no defenses. She'll be fine in a few.''

''Is that normal?'' A voice asks. It sounds like Sara. It can't be Sara. She's not supposed to be here. She left. Or Laurel made her leave? Or she died? She's always dying. No, wait, wait, maybe Laurel's the one who dies? Which one of them was in the water? She doesn't remember. ''I don't remember it being that intense when we were kids. It was like she was just gone.''

Laurel looks down at her hands that won't do what she wants them to do. Gone? Where did she go? Is she here right now?

She tries to swallow but her mouth is too dry. She wants to take off her sweatshirt, but she can't move. Her limbs won't work. Her body won't work. She keeps trying to send it commands, but it won't listen. She is frozen in place, slowly being consumed, unable to run, unable to even shout for help. She can't even scream. It's like sinking in quicksand. It is a terribly claustrophobic feeling.

There is an increasing weight on her chest, a growing pressure inside of her that is becoming unbearable. It's crawling up her throat and sinking down to her toes. She feels like she's going to explode. Breathing is becoming a chore. She feels like she's just done an intense workout. Her heart is hammering so fast and so loud she can hear it even over the ringing and the roaring.

''Laurel?''

Startled, her body rips out of paralysis and jerks in fright. She looks up. She feels like she should be smiling or doing something to comfort him and make sure he knows she's okay because she doesn't want to scare him, but she's not okay. She couldn't smile if she tried.

He doesn't look scared. He doesn't even look that concerned. He smiles at her, softly, sweetly. He is being very careful with her. ''How're you doing, babe?''

Everything is caving in. She is about to crumble apart.

So.

She's not doing great.

She should tell him. About the curse. What it could do. What it has done to her. What it will do to Mary. She should tell him that. He should know. She's losing her mind. She is going to lose her mind. Maybe she's already lost it. One day, she'll have a panic attack and she won't be able to come back from it. Maybe it will even be this one.

One day, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe ten years from now, maybe even twenty, she is going to get so lost that she will not be able to find her way back. Just like the others. She's going to walk into the water with stones in her pockets just like Dinah Ellard. She's going to let the water take her, and he's going to have to watch it happen.

This is how he'll lose her. It might even be how he loses Mary.

How can she tell him that? It would break his heart. If she opens her mouth and speaks, he'll know. He'll know what she's done to their daughter. He'll be angry and terrified. And he'll leave. He will take Mary away from her and she won't blame him when he does. She's amazed he's put up with her whining and her drama and her literal craziness for as long as he has. It's best to get out of her blast radius. To run while you still can. Sooner or later, everyone figures that out.

But she doesn't want him to leave.

She doesn't want to end up like Great Aunt Faye, shut off from the world, hidden away behind four walls and the Maine wilderness with only the trees to keep her company. She doesn't want to be Dinah Ellard, loved and lost and taken by the sea. She doesn't want to be Edie, isolated and angry, so out of control that she explodes and takes innocent people with her. She doesn't want to be any of them.

She wants to keep this life of hers. Hold onto Dean and Mary with both hands. Like her life depends on it. Because maybe it does. She just doesn't know how she's supposed to do that when her hands are no longer strong enough to hold onto anything.

If Dean notices the increasing distress and creeping horror written all over her face, he says nothing. And he does notice. There is no way he doesn't. He smiles at her again, quick and distracted, but aiming for comforting and disarming. He takes a few leisurely steps into her personal space. ''You must be warm,'' he tells her, hands hovering by the hem of her sweatshirt. ''Let's get this off before you overheat. Is that okay?''

She nods jerkily and allows him to help her out of both the sweatshirt and the flannel, even though it feels like a thousand needle pricks to be touched right now. She is feeling hot. That is the one thing she is sure of. The one thing that doesn't feel muddled. She is very, very warm. That sickly, faint feeling of being overheated is starting to set in. She remembers being cold not that long ago. Miserably cold. She couldn't get warm. No matter how many layers she wrapped herself in or how many blankets she had. She felt like ice. Cold as death.

A hysterical giggle bubbles up in her throat and escapes.

Dean looks at her, but he doesn't say anything. He sits her down on the edge of the bed and pulls over a chair from the vanity so he can sit across from her. She tries to clutch at the comforter but it hurts too much to touch anything right now. It's uncomfortable enough just to feel the bed beneath her. She is supposed to be trying to ground herself. Sitting on the hard floor, holding her husband's hand, touching the ground, the wall, a pillow, anything to jolt her back to life. Just the thought makes her feel nauseated.

She's also supposed to be practicing mindfulness. She's supposed to be focusing on her breathing. Picking out everything in this room that is red. Paying close attention to the present, the here and now, her thoughts and feelings.

She is too far gone for any of that.

Dean asks her, ''Do you want to try getting out of this or is it too late?''

All she can do is look at him with her panic stricken eyes.

He doesn't ask again. ''Okay. We'll ride it out. We can do that.'' He keeps saying 'we.' She notices that. He sounds far away, but she notices that he keeps saying 'we.' This isn't exactly a team sport, but she knows he means well.

She would run from this if she could. She keeps trying to focus on her breathing but her attention span is shot. She draws in a breath and forgets to let it out. She tries to count in her head but only makes it to two. She tries to pick out everything that's red in the room, but she can't remember what red looks like. She has no rhythm. Her chest hurts when she breathes in and it hurts even more when she breathes out.

He grabs a glass of water that's sitting on the vanity next to what looks like a damp cloth. She does not remember him getting these things, but she also doesn't remember how she got from the back deck to the bedroom. ''Do you think you can take a few sips?'' He asks, and she balks at the idea. She'll choke if she tries. ''All right, maybe we'll try later.'' He puts the glass back down. Is she speaking out loud to him? She doesn't understand how he keeps reading her mind. Has her panic become a language he has learned to read?

''Is this a touching or no touching kind of day?'' He questions.

She cannot answer him to tell him that it is 100% a no touching day. Which does not help her panic. She doesn't want to be touched right now, but he's a toucher. It's usually helpful. It's usually the biggest comforter. Normally, he would be massaging her temples for her or working the pressure points on her back or rubbing her shoulders. Right now, she feels like her skin is crawling. The idea of being touched makes her want to vomit. But she can't _tell_ him that. The fact that her consent cannot be verbalized right now is extremely distressing. It's an uncontrollable, unasked for and unwelcome intense kind of vulnerability that is only adding to her hysteria. If she was with anyone other than her husband, she would not be able to say no to anything.

Dean, again, seems to instinctively just know that today is not a day for back rubs or hand holding. He doesn't touch her. He doesn't even try. He does scoot the chair closer, but not close enough to touch her, not even close enough for her to feel the heat from his body. ''We don't have to touch,'' he says. ''Just look at me. Just focus on me and breathe. It won't be like this forever.''

She's trying, but her vision keeps blurring and she keeps losing him to the static. She doesn't think she's going to be able to keep both his face and his voice.

''Laurel,'' his voice is gentle. ''I can see you trying to fight this. It's only going to last longer if you keep putting it off. I know it sucks, but I think you need to let it happen.''

Easy for him to say.

Her entire life has been narrowed down to the immense feeling of impending doom, a looming terror, and sheer panic. There's nowhere she can run, there's nowhere to hide, nothing concrete or tangible to fight, but avoidance is an instinct. She so badly does not want to feel this. She does not want to be here or have to do this. Even as her breathing quickens and worsens, palms growing sweatier by the minute, she so desperately does not want to do this. She knows he's right. She needs to let the panic in and get it over with. How can she do that when that goes against her every instinct?

Laurel tries to keep looking at him, to use his face as an anchor, but she can't. The panic is making him fuzzy around the edges. She closes her eyes as her breathing speeds up and starts becoming short, frantic pants and wheezes.

''Baby,'' he says, from far away. ''Listen to my voice. I'm right here. I'm right here with you. Everything's going to be okay,'' he says. He _promises._ ''I know it hurts right now, but it'll pass. It won't be like this forever. Just keep trying your best to breathe. You'll get there.''

Panic is hard work.

She often views childbirth as the hardest thing she's ever done - and it was - but panic is something that recurs. It crops up over and over again, sudden back breaking hard work on an otherwise normal Sunday afternoon or even on her daughter's birthday. It sucks. Having to fight and struggle just to breathe sucks. Every time she manages to get in a breath, the feeling of inexplicable terror get worse and her heartbeat speeds up.

''You're not gonna die, honey,'' Dean's telling her. ''You're doing great.''

She does not feel like she's doing great. She feels like her heart is about to burst out of her chest. She fights and manages to get one strangled breath to reach her starving lungs.

''That's my girl,'' he encourages. He falls silent after that, for barely five seconds, and that sickening dread surges. She tries to say his name but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper. She reaches for his hand and he, very carefully, takes her hand in his. ''I'm still here,'' he assures her. ''Right here with you.''

It doesn't hurt to have him touch her. That must be progress. She keeps her eyes shut and focuses on her breathing and his voice and the way he's so gently holding her hand.

''Hey, you want me to sing to you?'' He jokes. ''Would that relax you?''

The suddenness of the joke startles her and a messy laugh comes tumbling out of her, erupting from her chest like a volcano. She's not sure if the laugh shocks her body or if the panic attack is just moving into the next phase, but her wheezes are actually resulting in air reaching her lungs again. The feeling of the oxygen rushing back to her lungs makes her feel dizzy. She's still panting, still floundering, but things are improving. The feeling of impending doom is transforming into shame and sadness without reason. She keeps her eyes shut and focuses on breathing.

Her breathing does even out eventually and her head quiets down. She doesn't keep track of the time but it feels like she sits there for hours, working on breathing, gluing herself back together. Slowly, she opens her eyes.

Dean, still sitting across from her, both of his hands wrapped around one of hers, smiles at her. He looks happy to see her. ''Hi there, pretty bird,'' he says. ''Welcome back.''

She looks at him for a second, meets his eyes, and then promptly bursts into tears. It's nothing new. She honestly doesn't even try to stop it. There's no point. This is going to happen whether she likes it or not.

He lifts her hand up so he can kiss the back of it. ''You're doing great, Laur.''

She moves her free hand to her sore chest. The worst part of the unavoidable sobbing is how much her body fights it. It physically hurts. She keeps trying to stifle the sobs, swallow them down and bury them, and it's so exhausting. The cries have to force their way out, leaving her feeling raw and bruised. It's horrible and it never gets any less horrible no matter how many times she goes through this.

''I - I'm sorry,'' she coughs out. ''I'm sorry. I - I couldn't...''

''Don't apologize,'' he says firmly, with a shake of his head. ''You have nothing to apologize for. This is not a big deal. You're exhausted and you just had two young adult novel rejects unload a shit ton of shitty info on you. You're allowed to be overwhelmed. Hell, _I'm_ overwhelmed.'' He gives her hand a squeeze before letting go. She watches as he rises to his feet and grabs the cloth from beside the glass of water. He sits down beside her and dabs at her flushed, sweaty face with the cool cloth.

She expects to feel comforted by his close proximity to her but when he sits down next to her, all she can feel is frustration and embarrassment. None of it is his fault. He's just trying to help her the way he always does. It's just that he's going to ask. She knows he's going to ask. He'll ask what the trigger was, if she wants to talk about it, and she doesn't want to tell him. She doesn't want him to have to carry any of that. It's too much.

Laurel balls her hands into fists and tries to stop fucking crying.

She knows it will pass, but it's humiliating to lose it like this. To have him see her so out of control and frenzied. It's not like this is gentle weeping. This is full body, gulping, wracking, hysterical sobs.

She does understand, you know. How he could lie to her. Why he didn't tell her she was dying. She's angry, but she gets it. She understands the paralyzing selfishness of fear. She's been there. Look at her now.

When the sobbing begins to calm, replaced by whimpers and ragged breathing, in the space before the trembling, her head finally begins to clear. The heavy fog begins to lessen and she is finally able to surface for breath. She realizes, in the aftermath of hysteria, that her husband is not going to leave her and take their daughter if she tells him that she's worried mental instability might be part of the Ellard family curse. She even realizes that she doesn't deserve to be left.

She doesn't even know if her worries are founded. Who can know for sure? There's a good chance she could be being histrionic and presumptuous.

There may very well be some truth to the idea that the scream has a negative affect on the mental health of the women who have to carry it around inside of their chests like a live grenade. Mary may have some trouble later on in life. But, if she does wind up needing a little extra help, she's going to get it. It doesn't have to be a tragedy. If she needs help, they will help her. She will not be alone in this. Not ever. And she won't be in the dark. They'll tell her. Prepare her.

She's beginning to shake like a leaf. Dean is rubbing her back and reminding her to breathe. She's going to voice her concerns to him about Mary. She's his child too. He deserves to know. But... Later. Once she gets her head on straight.

''You think you can get some water down now?'' He asks when she lifts her head.

She's still trembling violently, but she does nod. Her mouth is so dry that her tongue feels like it's glued to the roof of her mouth and it feels like there's sandpaper in her throat. Even taking the tiniest sip of water is a challenge thanks to the adrenaline shakes her body is currently suffering through. She can't even hold the glass herself because her hands are so unsteady. Dean has to carefully tilt it to her lips. The first attempt goes south and ends with her choking and coughing up the water. He handles it with ease, handing her the cloth to mop the water off her chin. The second attempt goes better, though she still sputters. On the third attempt, she actually gets enough water to unstick her tongue. It's a relief. It's also humiliating.

As soon as she gets enough water to wet her mouth, she leans forward to bury her head in her hands so she doesn't have to look at him.

He doesn't force the issue. Just takes the water away, puts it back on the vanity, and sits back in his chair to give her some space. ''I should've brought a straw.''

''Straws are bad for the environment,'' she croaks out.

''We have those reusable crazy straws of Mary's.''

''But they're still plastic.''

''Hey, you're the one who bought them.''

She sniffles and raises her head, careful not to do it too quickly. ''I had to.''

''But, Laurel,'' he says. ''The landfills.''

''It's the only way she'll drink Pedialyte,'' she says, looking around for a box of tissues. ''You know that.'' She stops looking for the elusive box of tissues and looks back at him, narrowing her eyes. ''You're making fun of me.''

He grins at her and stands to grab the box of Kleenex from where it has fallen off her bedside table. ''Can you blame her?'' He flops back on the chair once she's accepted the box. ''That shit tastes disgusting.''

''You've drank it?''

''I taste everything she puts in her mouth. Don't you?''

''I guess not as much as I used to now that she can tell us when she doesn't like something.'' She plucks a Kleenex from the box and blows her nose. ''Everything she puts in her mouth, huh?'' She tosses the used tissue into the trash bin. ''You know, she eats her boogers.''

''Not anymore.'' He leans back in the chair, slouching down. ''Now she just sticks them under the tables.''

''Ew, what?'' Laurel wrinkles her nose in disgust. ''No, she doesn't.''

''Why do you think I clean under the tables so often?''

''I thought you were just being anal!''

''Don't yell out the word anal,'' he advises. ''They're gonna get the wrong idea about what we're doing in here.'' A pause, and then he smirks. ''Unless you want them to - ''

''Dean!''

''Probably shouldn't yell me name out either,'' he says, undeterred. ''Or they're really gonna get the wrong idea.''

''Oh my god.'' He just laughs. He looks incredibly proud of his dumb jokes.

She tries to fight the smile creeping up onto her lips. ''Does she really wipe her boogers under the tables?''

''I thought I'd told you about this.''

''But... Why?''

All he can do is shrug and say, ''Kids are gross.''

The shaking has passed by now, dulled down to a mild tremble. When he hands her back the glass of water, she is able to take a few slow sips all by herself.

After a few minutes, each minute better than the last, he finally approaches with caution. ''You good?''

''Better,'' she says. The emotional aspect of the panic attack has almost completely disappeared by now. The doom and gloom fog, the dark cloud over her head, the claustrophobic feeling of being boxed into her own body. Only the heaviness remains. This is normally the part where she'd crawl into bed and sleep it off. Not an option right now. There's too much to do.

''You want me to kick everyone out so you can get some rest?'' He asks, because maybe he really is a mind reader.

She takes another sip of water. ''No.'' She takes a few more sips and then experimentally rises to her feet. Her legs still feel jelly-like, but she doesn't immediately drop. She can't tell if she feels like crap because of the panic attack or because she's, you know, rotting apparently.

''Do you want to talk about it?''

She puts the glass back down. ''It was just...'' She stops and bites down on her bottom lip. ''It was everything, I guess,'' she says. ''All of it. The past couple days...'' She shakes her head and looks down at the ground. ''I'm tired and I don't feel well and all that crap just got dumped into my lap and it was just... Too much.'' She smiles weakly. ''My circuits got overloaded.''

He stands up, inching closer to her so he can put his hands on her shoulders and then run them down her bare arms. It's only when she feels the heat of his skin against hers that she realizes she's starting to feel cold again. She can't seem to get away from this cold.

''You sure you're okay? If you need to take a few - ''

''No, no, I'm good,'' she says, which is a lie and they both know it. ''It is what it is.''

He opts not to press the issue, but he does pull her in for a hug. He wraps his arms around her and holds her tight against him like he's trying to wrap her up and protect her. She pauses, caught off guard, and then, slowly, she winds her arms around him and hugs him back. She's not sure why she's caught off guard. It's the tenderness of it. Tenderness is a shock after the violence of a panic attack. He smells like coffee and soap and Mary's strawberry peach smoothie. His body is warm and solid and so familiar. She knows it like she knows her own. Maybe even better. It's home.

She closes her eyes and accepts the comfort he's offering her.

It's not a surprise to her that Samandriel said she was rotting. All she's done since yesterday is fever dream. In her dreams, she's always rotting. That is not a metaphor. She means that in the most literal sense. For twenty four hours, she has been crumbling and melting and disintegrating. Walking around with her flesh falling away, eyes unseeing, sunken back into her head and covered in a white film. Her body bloats and oozes, decomposes rapidly until her tongue is swollen and her lips are gone. Like a mirror held up to show her what's really going on underneath the illusion of being alive. Or a warning of what's to come.

 _This is what happened to you, and this is what will happen again. You silly girl, you thought you were really here?_

Dean was in her dreams. He was dead. He was living, then he was dying, and then he was dead. It started this morning. In every dream, every nightmare, every time it started all over again, it always ended the same way. With Dean crumpled at her feet, bleeding out, dead, and her useless fingers, flesh molted away, stripped down to the bone, muscles and tendons and veins hanging, could not save him. Sometimes she tried. Sometimes she was the one who lit the match, pulled the trigger, brandished the knife.

Late last night, it was Mary in her dreams. Mary, lying at her feet, lifeless and cold. Mary, bloodied and broken, and Laurel's own hands holding the knife. When she first had those dreams, the ones of her little girl crumpled and dead, she was so viscerally horrified and sickened that she woke up in the middle of the night, paralyzed, unable to scream, and instead all she could do was lean over the side of the bed and vomit. She never told Dean about the dreams. She's still not sure if she should. She had a raging fever. They were just dreams.

Only they weren't.

It's a message.

 _Do as I say or I will take what you love the most._

She wonders who she will dream about tonight. Will it be Sara? Or Thea? Her father?

She squeezes her eyes shut tighter and swallows down the bile rising in her throat. She holds onto him tighter, with both hands. Reluctantly, she pulls away from the hug. Dean doesn't let her go far, grasping onto her hand lightly. He reaches up to cradle her cheek with his other hand. He knows damn well there was more to this panic attack than fatigue and information overload. But he won't ask. He never does. That's the thing about her husband. He rarely pushes her into talking. He waits, gives her space, and lets her come to him when she's ready. She loves him for that.

''If you need a break, say the word and I'll shut it down,'' she says. ''Got it?''

''Got it.'' She pushes herself up onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to his in a soft kiss. ''Thank you.''

All he says in return is, ''Always.'' He heads for the bedroom door as soon as he's pulled away from her, but Laurel lingers where she is. She grabs the discarded flannel from the bed and throws it back on. She's cold but also they have company and she'd like to cover up this ratty old t-shirt she's wearing. She should run to the bathroom and wash her face. Can't imagine she looks great right now. Her face is probably all red and splotchy. She wishes she had time to wash her hair. She feels greasy. She settles for running a brush through it and putting it up in a ponytail. She grabs the half empty glass of water, chugs the rest, and then puts it back down. Her eyes travel up to look at her reflection in the mirror and -

A horrified gasp rips out of her and she leaps back, face twisting in horror. Her heart pounds noisily in her ears, smashing against her ribcage in fright. Her reflection is not her reflection. It is, but it's not. The body in the mirror is not reflecting what she's doing. The body in the mirror stands in her bedroom, lips curled up into a cruel smile, with blood on her teeth and a mask covering her lifeless eyes. The rotting woman's rotting smile widens. She advances as if to attack or maybe to escape and opens her cavernous mouth impossibly wide to scream.

Instinctively, Laurel throws her hands up to cover her face from the onslaught of shattered glass. It never comes. Breathing shakily, she puts down her hands and looks back at the mirror. Her reflection is completely normal. No rot. No mocking smile. No mouth with too many teeth opening too wide to scream or perhaps to devour. It's just her. Pale, tired, and frightened, but her. Alive and breathing.

She frantically grabs at her wedding rings. It's all she can think of to do. She twists the ring. She runs her fingers over the eternity band Dean gave her. She feels the engravings on the engagement ring passed down to her by her grandparents. She takes a few deep breaths. Miraculously, she does not spiral.

''Laur?'' Dean pokes his head back into the room. ''Are you - ''

''I'm coming,'' she says. ''Right behind you.'' Her feet propel her over to him and away from the mirror. She doesn't look back.

.

.

.

''Okay,'' Oliver sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose in obvious frustration. ''So you can't give us any numbers?''

He's standing at the head of the dining room table, hands braced against the back of the chair, towering over Hanna and Mattie with a look of vexation on his face. They don't seem intimidated by him. Hanna maybe looks mildly bugged. Mattie, still slurping at the remnants of his soup, looks unbothered.

They haven't fucked over Oliver. Makes sense they would be unafraid of him. It doesn't matter that he's the Mayor. It matters even less that he's the Green Arrow.

''I told you,'' Hanna says tersely. ''I was mostly confined to one room.'' She is sitting primly in her chair, hands folded in her lap, spine straight. She only ate a small piece of bread and less than half a bowl of soup, but she is on her third cup of tea. Her brother is on his second bowl of soup and his second cup of tea that is mostly milk and honey. ''There's no way I could know how many soldiers she has,'' she says. ''She has a whole compound.''

''Which you also know nothing about,'' Oliver grouses.

''Because we were blindfolded on the way there.'' She swings a pleading look in Laurel's direction. ''I've told you everything I know.''

Laurel has to shake herself out of an exhausted stupor. ''I know,'' she says, and tries for a smile. She reaches across the table to pat Hanna's hand. ''You did good.''

It's true. Hanna has spent the last forty-five minutes spilling her guts. She's described the witch to the best of her abilities - the sound of her voice, her height, weight, eye color, hair color, even her fashion sense.

The witch is tall and slender and favors heels, which makes her seem even taller. She wears a lot of dresses, expensive ones at that. She has brown eyes and dark hair. Her smile is wide and white. She speaks softly and slowly. She means every word. There is an unnerving twinkle in her eyes; a permanent superiority that suggests she deeply enjoys, possibly even thrives on the chaos she creates. She believes in what she is doing.

She never lifts a finger. She doesn't fight, not to Hanna's knowledge. She has people for that. Even when she puffs her chest out and shows off her power as a witch, she is calm and steady.

Every piece of information Hanna gives paints the picture of a smart, terrifying, and utterly self-important creature. She sounds vain and shallow and egotistical, but brutally competent. Possibly out of her mind, but clever and powerful and _hungry._

She also, it cannot be forgotten, has an army.

Hanna doesn't know how many soulless soldiers she has, but she gets new bodies every day. Her army is not just made of soulless individuals. There's also Ricky, Dante (who they've deduced likely still has his soul but is just an idiot), a female bodyguard - mid to late thirties, Asian, cruel, never smiles, massive hate on for the Moretti family - who also still retains her soul, and another man who Hanna never saw with her own eyes, but who the witch talked to on the phone regularly.

It's a whole operation. A seemingly well-oiled machine working out of some big house somewhere on the outskirts of the city. It's all been going on right under their noses. Right under the Green Arrow's nose. This wasn't even a blip on the radar until now. Laurel can understand Oliver's resentment.

''What about on the way out?'' He asks, standing straight. ''You weren't blindfolded then, were you?''

''No, but - ''

''And you're telling me you didn't notice anything?''

''Seeing as how we were running for our lives,'' Hanna bites out, ''no, I can't say I paid much attention.'' She keeps her chin up and stares up at him defiantly.

In return, Oliver narrows his eyes and glowers.

Automatically, either because of maternal instinct or just because she's known Oliver since they were fourteen, Laurel says - or, rather, warns, '' _Ollie_.''

He backs off.

Dean, sitting beside Laurel with one arm draped over the back of her chair, takes a sip of his coffee. He has said surprisingly little during Oliver's interrogation. An unusual thing for him. He's usually all about the biting sarcasm when it comes to Oliver. Also, he's supposed to be winning Laurel a dollar right now and he is not doing a very good job of it.

Now, though, when he notices Hanna and Mattie are both beginning to tense up, he sets his mug down, leans in close to the kids, and says, ''Don't mind him. He's not housetrained.'' He gives them both a wink and a smile. ''If it helps, just think of him as a cardboard cutout of a person. That's basically his personality anyway.''

Oliver actually looks slightly wounded by that.

Hanna, on the other hand, relaxes. Which, in turn, makes Mattie relax. She huffs out a small sigh and then, sounding thoughtful, starts talking. ''It's a big property. Like, there's gotta be a couple acres at least. Lots of woods. And...'' She pauses, thoughtful.

Dean, eyes still on her, reaches over to swat at Sam's arm. Sam rushes to grab for a nearby notebook to write down what Hanna's saying.

''I think there's a barn there,'' she says. ''Or - Or some kind of other building. Maybe just a big shed thing. And it has one of those long, windy driveways, you know? The kind that are really bumpy and narrow.'' She settles back against her chair. ''Anyway, that's it. I can't remember anything else. It was dark. I don't know if that helps.''

''It helps,'' Sam assures her. ''It definitely helps.''

Dean looks over at Oliver with a shit-eating grin.

Oliver huffs.

Sara, leaning against the wall off to the side, curses under her breath. Without asking, she pushes off the wall, invades Oliver's space, steals his wallet, and plucks out a dollar bill to hand over to Laurel.

Laurel accepts it with glee. ''Fantastic,'' she chirps. ''Babe.'' She pokes Dean on the shoulder. ''Babe, I'm bringing home the bacon again.''

He looks lost, but he grins anyway. ''Awesome. Dinner's on you then?''

''A roll of Certs from Star City's finest vending machine.''

''A pack of Juicy Fruit would go farther.''

''Oh, sweetie.'' She tucks the dollar into his hand, closes his fist around it, and pats his cheek. ''It might've been a dollar back in your day but a pack of Juicy Fruit is a dollar fifty minimum.''

''Is that all you can remember?'' Sam asks, cruising right past the exchange happening to his left.

Hanna leans back against her chair. She looks hesitant about something. ''I'm...not sure,'' she confesses. ''There was...'' Her lips turn down into a frown. ''I don't know if...'' She trails off yet again, lets out an aggravated sigh, and shakes her head. ''I think... I think there might have been a kid there?''

Laurel feels her entire body tense up, sitting up ramrod straight in her chair.

The small smile is wiped right off of Dean's face. ''A kid,'' he repeats. ''She has a kid?''

''I don't know if it's her kid,'' Hanna says. ''I don't even know...'' She lets out another sigh. ''I don't know,'' she says, sounding annoyed. ''I didn't see one while I was there, not with my own eyes, but I swear - I swear I heard a kid crying. I was in, like, this library type room and I looked all over but I couldn't find anyone.''

Laurel's lips tighten. ''If there's a child involved in this - ''

 _''Then we'll need to act quickly.''_ It's Nyssa's voice, crackling through the speaker of Cas' phone. She's been silent so far, listening in from her phone while she's at the park with Mary and Charlie. _''And carefully. I think we all understand that. A child changes everything. However.''_ Abruptly, her tone changes. She sounds like a disappointed mom. _''May I ask a question that should have been asked already? How do we know we can trust you?''_

All eyes go to the Moretti siblings. All eyes, that is, except for Laurel's. She looks down at her own untouched bowl of soup that Sam put in front of her when she sat down. She only managed about three bites and even that was a chore. Eating is useless right now anyway. There's no way she's going to be able to keep it down. Last night, she managed to get down half a bowl of Dean's tomato rice soup only to end up throwing it all up. Today she got down a cup of coffee, four strawberries, and a tiny bit of yogurt. That's more than enough.

She pushes the bowl away from her and trains her gaze on Mattie and Hanna. She doesn't bother to weigh in on this particular issue. Contrary to popular belief, she is not a naive fool. She is well aware that these two have been playing up their innocence and helplessness. Maybe even their regret. That doesn't mean what they said wasn't true, but their whole shtick is undoubtedly a ploy. No, of course she doesn't trust them. They burned that bridge.

But this has nothing to do with trust. Hanna and Mattie need them to get their mother back and they know it. They won't risk her life. Whatever else, their love for their mother is real.

''About the kid?'' Hanna asks innocently. ''Why would I lie about - ''

 _''About everything, Ms. Moretti,''_ Nyssa says, voice crisp.

Hanna answers that with a cloying sweetness. ''My Gran says you can't ask yourself what's wrong with the world without looking in the mirror and accepting some of the responsibility.''

Which is all well and good, but doesn't actually answer the question.

 _''That's nice,''_ Nyssa says placidly. _''But how do we know we can trust you?''_

Hanna puckers her lips, perturbed.

''I think what Nyssa is trying to say,'' Cas begins, ''is can you two, for five minutes, cut the bullshit?''

Mattie and Hanna are not the only ones who snap their attention to him in shock.

He doesn't even flinch. His gaze is calm and even as is his voice as he says, ''If your mother and grandmother have even _half_ the amount of power you claim they do then you two are the furthest things away from helpless. So do us all a favor and drop the act.''

It is the most authoritative Laurel has heard him in a long time. He levels them both with a single apathetic look. Hanna manages to hold his gaze longer than Mattie, staring at him with her big Disney eyes. Then her shoulders slump and she looks at her brother with a very different look in her eyes. He just shrugs and shoves more food in his face. She looks back at Cas. She looks at him for a long time, head cocked to the side, smirk spreading on her lips, and then she leans over to him and sneers, '' _Angels_.''

''Buzzkills,'' Mattie says around a mouthful of bread.

''Should've known you were going to be a problem, Castiel,'' Hanna says, taking a sip of her tea.

Laurel can feel Dean tense beside her and when she looks over at him, he's looking at Sam. Sam isn't looking at his brother, but he still seems to get the look, reaching for his weapon.

''I fucking knew it,'' Sara mumbles.

Hanna turns her attention back to Dean and Laurel with a smirk. ''You want to know how you can trust us?'' All trace of the innocent, bug eyed, motherless child has disappeared, replaced by a confident, cunning young woman. ''You can't.''

''Witches,'' Mattie says, pointing to himself. ''Hunters,'' he adds, pointing to Sam and Dean.

''We were taught to fear you,'' Hanna says. ''You were taught to kill us.''

''Natural enemies.''

''But we will do what it takes to get our mother back,'' Hanna says grimly. ''Even if it means teaming up with hunters. We need her. She's not just our mother. She's the leader of our coven. Most of our power is on a leash that she holds. This isn't about trust.''

''It's about need,'' Laurel finishes.

Hanna looks at her, mildly surprised. ''Yes.''

Unlike the others, Laurel has felt no need to tense up at the shift. Of course they're not innocent kids. They're witches who brought someone back from the dead. They were never innocent. At least now they're being honest.

''I'm powerful but I'm outnumbered,'' Hanna says. ''We need you.''

''We're not asking to be friends,'' Mattie says, finally pushing his empty bowl away. ''We're just asking for a temporary truce. As soon as we get Mom, we'll get out of town and none of you will ever see us again.''

Laurel watches their expressions carefully. After a minute, she reaches over and places her hand on Dean's knee. His shoulders relax and he slides his eyes over to his brother. Sam hesitates, but ultimately chooses to let his hand fall away from his weapon.

''Believe it or not,'' Hanna says, locking eyes with Laurel. ''I did mean what I said. We are good witches and we do regret what we've done to you. I just might've embellished some details. Whatever,'' she waves it off. ''Look, if you'll let us, we can help you.''

''Help her how?'' Dean asks. ''What can you do for her? Can you break this spell? Or at least repair it?''

''Well...'' Hanna bites down on her lip. ''No,'' she admits. ''I can't remove the spell. I know it's making her sick, but it's also what's keeping her alive. If I break it, she dies. And I would have no idea how to repair it.''

''Then you sound pretty useless to me,'' Oliver says sharply.

Hanna looks at him for a second and then leans across the table, directing her attention to Dean. ''Would you like me to stitch his mouth shut?''

''Don't tempt me.''

Mattie, who mostly looks sad that there is no more food for him to eat, looks up at Oliver. ''Fuck you, dude. It's not like she said she came here empty handed. Unclench.''

''There is something,'' Hanna confirms. ''It's a legend. It's called the Resurrection Seal. It was developed by the Grand Coven - a hierarchy of witches, they think they're hot shit, but,'' she rolls her eyes, ''they're old news now. Just a bunch of old ladies sitting around with their hoop earrings and their tarot cards and - ''

''Oh my _god_ , shut up,'' Mattie cuts in. ''Nobody cares about your ageism.''

This new version of Hanna Moretti is nothing like shy Heather Denton. Laurel can't help but wonder how much of Heather was real and how much was a lie.

''But anyway,'' Hanna flicks her hair over her shoulder and looks back at Laurel. ''This seal - It's basically a bundle of extremely powerful magic. It's placed inside someone and if they die, it revives them.''

''Sounds like a pacemaker,'' Sara says.

''Kind of,'' Hanna allows. ''It's not something that's supposed to exist. It defies the natural order of things. That's why it's so secret. Not many people know about it and the ones who have heard of it think it's a myth.''

''It's not?'' Dean's voice is flat and he doesn't look at all impressed by what she's saying, but he's also clutching Laurel's hand so tightly she's a little worried he's going to fracture the bones in her poor hand.

''Oh, it's very real,'' says Hanna.

Cas doesn't look convinced. ''How can you be sure?''

''Because my mom has seen it in action.'' Hanna shrugs her shoulders. ''Before she got married and had us, Mom was... She hung around with different people. There was this one witch - I think her name was Rowena. Brilliant and powerful, but selfish, according to Mom. She stole the seal. My mom saw how it works once. She saw Rowena die and then, a few minutes later, she just...woke up. Like nothing had ever happened. This was Mom's plan to help you,'' she says. ''My mom and Rowena had a falling out years and years ago so she would never help, but Rowena had loose lips after a bottle of scotch and she told Mom everything. How it works, how to put it inside of someone, how it was made. Mom wrote it all down.''

''She writes everything down,'' Mattie chimes in.

''Her plan was to find a way to create a resurrection seal and give it to you. That way you just get to live. No catch. No drawbacks. No consequences. You just get a second chance.''

''Did she find it?'' Laurel barely even recognizes her own voice, raspy and breathless. ''A way to make the seal?''

''She was close,'' Hanna says. ''I have her journals. I know what she was doing.'' There's a flicker in her eyes, a flash of fire. ''I'm going to pick up where she left off.''

 _''How long will this take you?''_ Nyssa's voice questions.

Hanna falters. ''I don't know.''

Dean's face visibly falls. ''That's not good enough. She's running out of time.''

''I know.'' She looks over at Mattie, who dutifully leans down to pick her bag up off the ground. She digs through it and pulls out a worn looking journal. ''That's why I have this.''

''Which is?''

''A temporary fix.'' She smiles at Laurel. ''It should stabilize you and restore your health long enough for me to figure out the seal.''

''It's an energy linking spell,'' Mattie says, cheerful.

''An energy linking spell,'' Cas repeats. His expression darkens considerably. ''Those are notoriously unsafe and complicated.''

''Not this one,'' Hanna says. She flips open the journal and slides it over to him. ''Mom made this spell when I was born. I was premature. By like a lot.''

Mattie nods his head vigorously. ''She almost died a bunch of times.''

''I should be dead right now,'' she says. ''I would be if Mom hadn't done this spell.''

''She linked herself to you,'' Laurel whispers.

''And I lived.''

That is something that makes perfect sense to Laurel. She's a mother. She can honestly say she completely understands that thought process. A mother will do anything to save her child. She would have done the same thing. She understands a mother connecting herself to her child to save their life. She cannot fathom why anyone would ever pour their life into hers to keep her here.

''There were no side effects?'' Cas questions, still leafing through the journal. ''Your mother suffered no ill health from this?''

Hanna's pause is too long. ''She kept the spell going for longer than she should have,'' she finally says. ''I was over a year old when Dad finally made her break it. Around that time, she was...feeling the spell.''

Sam narrows his eyes. ''What does that mean?''

''Just that she was tired a lot,'' Mattie explains. ''Her immune system was out of whack so she was getting a lot of colds. She had a bad case of the flu. Her iron levels were low. Things like that. But as soon as the spell was severed, she was fine. They both were. Hanna stayed healthy. Mom was back to normal within a month.''

''I'm not planning on keeping the spell going for that long,'' she says. ''I'm thinking more like a few weeks. No longer than a month. There shouldn't be any side effects.''

''Shouldn't,'' Sam says darkly.

''How does this work?'' Oliver plays with the sleeve of his white dress shirt, carefully pulling the sleeves up. ''How will it help her?''

Hanna takes her journal back from Cas. She places it on the table and puts her hand on it. ''The current spell is weak because it's flawed and because it's doing something it was never meant to do: sustain both her body and her soul. When a spell is weak like this, it searches for an energy source. The only energy source this one has is Laurel.''

Everyone turns their eyes to Laurel at that. She looks up at all the eyes on her. She's not sure if she's supposed to say something to that. What can she say? She tugs her hand out of Dean's grip and hides them between her thighs, trying to warm up her icy fingers. Cold, she remembers, is a symptom of shock.

''Because the spell is so weak,'' Hanna goes on, ''it's feeding off her energy to keep going, which is causing her condition to deteriorate rapidly. Because she's so sick, the spell is working even harder to keep her here, which means it needs even more energy. It's like a vicious circle.''

''Think of the spell as a rope,'' Mattie offers. ''Laurel's holding onto it and it's only strong enough to hold her body, but now the soul's jumped on as well and the additional weight is causing the rope to fray. We need to find a way to reinforce the rope while Hanna works on the seal.''

''And this,'' Dean gestures to the journal. ''This can do that?''

Mattie looks to Hanna. She says, with the utmost confidence, ''It will.''

''You're sure you can do this without your mom?''

''I am.''

''What are the risks?''

''...Minimal.''

''But they're there,'' Laurel says. Her voice sounds oddly hollow. She wants to find a way to fix this. She wants to find a way to stay more than anything. She's not sure if this is the right way. This sounds dangerous. Not for her but for the other person involved. She doesn't want to get anyone hurt.

''This won't be a one time transfusion type of situation,'' Hanna says. ''It's a constant, slow leeching.'' She looks contrite when she sees Laurel flinch at the description, but she doesn't take it back. ''It's a give and take. The two people involved in this spell will be bound together. Even after the spell is broken, some remnants of that connection will remain. My mom and I - It's not like we could feel each other's pain. But I...'' She looks down at the journal and curls her fingers around it protectively. ''I felt when her soul left her body.'' She visibly swallows hard. ''There's an emptiness inside of me now. Where she was.'' She looks up at Laurel. ''If we can't save her, I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life. So, no, I won't pretend there aren't risks. When you siphon energy from someone, you create a link. If you die while this spell is going, so do they. If they die, so will you. It's also not a permanent fix. You're still going to be in a decline. You just won't be able to feel it as much.''

''So it's a band aid,'' Laurel says.

''Band aids have their place. What this does is give you more time. This is what we have for you.'' She leans back. ''You can take it or leave it.''

''It does look like a solid spell,'' Cas says. ''It's not as flimsy as the one you're under now. No strange loopholes from what I can tell.'' He still raises an eyebrow at Hanna. ''Do you typically carry around your mother's private journals from 1998?''

''Like I said,'' she says breezily. ''This was always the plan.''

The silence that follows is heavy but short lived.

''I think you should do it,'' Sara says resolutely.

Oliver is also quick to jump on the train, offering her a decisive nod. ''Yep, me too.''

''Oh, we're doing this,'' Dean says, adamant, like he thinks this is his choice. He looks at her. The desperation in his eyes is not hidden well. ''Right?''

She releases a breath and props her elbows up on the table so she can hide her face in her hands. They're acting like this is the easiest choice in the world to make. It's not. They're talking about binding her to someone forever. Who wants to be bound to her forever? What if she dies? What if the energy isn't enough and she just drops dead? That means whoever does this dies with her. She would be responsible for the death of someone she loves. How is that fair? She can't do this to someone she cares about. She can't do this to anyone. ''I don't want anybody to die for me.''

''Nobody's dying,'' Sam tries to placate her.

''Laurel, this is your chance,'' Dean all but pleads.

She snorts and lifts her head, raking her hands through her hair. ''Until I die and take someone with me.''

''I can give you a way out,'' Hanna suggests. ''An emergency eject button of sorts. You would have complete control over the spell. That way if I, for some reason, can't create the seal or if your condition worsens or if the other persons starts getting sick, you'll be able to break the spell.''

Laurel chews on her lip, torn. It's a hard offer to pass up.

''Laurel.'' Sara crouches down beside Laurel's chair and reaches out to grab her hand. ''If you do this, you get more time with Mary. Even if we - If we can't save you. She deserves more time. There has to be more time.'' Her voice cracks when she speaks. Laurel can't remember the last time she saw her sister so close to tears. ''Please,'' Sara tries. ''Please, you have to do this.''

Laurel looks at her sister for a minute. Then she looks over at her husband. They both look so desperately, stupidly hopeful.

From Cas' phone, still set to speakerphone even though Nyssa has long since gone quiet, there is the muffled and faraway sound of barking. And then the sound of Mary; her joyful shriek of laughter. Bet she's having the time of her life right now. She's got her trail mix and there's a puppy and two of her aunties who will literally do whatever she asks of them. She had a good day at PT and she knows that her mom and dad will both be waiting for her at home and she's got a strawberry peach smoothie in the fridge and it's takeout night tonight. All is right in her world right now. There has been a lot of change, a lot of upheaval, and the hard times are not over yet but for today, right now, all is well.

Laurel swallows the rock in her throat.

Mary deserves that. She deserves peace, love, happiness, and both parents for as long as she can have them.

Laurel takes a deep breath. She looks at Hanna. ''When can you do it?''

''Right now.''

''Do it.''

Dean and Sara both let out audible sighs of relief.

Sam immediately gets to work, turning to Hanna. ''Do you have everything you need?''

''Mom already put together most of the ingredients.'' She rummages around in her bag and pulls out a tightly rolled and taped brown paper bag. ''I'll need a mortar and pestle if you have one, a pen and paper, salt, and tweezers.''

Sam is on his feet in a second. ''On it.''

''How is it done?'' Dean asks once Sam has disappeared into the kitchen.

''An implant,'' Cas says. ''The spell goes inside of her and her partner in this.'' He looks to Hanna and Mattie. ''Yes?''

''Yes,'' she confirms.

Everyone is moving. Getting to their feet and standing at the ready. Laurel is the only one still sitting at the table, left feeling small and vulnerable. They are all so frantic to save her, their movements quick and harried, but she feels stuck in slow motion. Suddenly, very suddenly, she feels sad. She feels so unimaginably, unbearably sad. It just washes over her like a wave. Grief is like a wave, she remembers, and she is still grieving.

She is afraid. This, she supposes, is obvious. She's dying. Most people are afraid to die. It's not just that. That's the thing. She doesn't want to do this. She doesn't want to have to. She doesn't want to need witchcraft or the Lazarus Pit. She doesn't want to be put under a spell. To have to steal energy from someone just to stay alive. It feels wrong.

If she had just stayed home that night.

None of this would be happening. She wouldn't have died then and she wouldn't be dying now. The scream wouldn't have been triggered. She wouldn't have missed her daughter's first day of school or her first horse ride or her fourth birthday. They would have a brand new baby. Less than a week old if her calculations are correct. She has a hard time not letting her mind drift there when she thinks about what happened. She wonders if they would have had a boy or a girl. What they would have named the baby. How Mary would have adjusted to being a big sister.

She could know. She could know all of those things if that night had happened differently. She could know how it feels to be a mom of two instead of how it feels to be stabbed in the lung by one of her ex-boyfriend's primitive weapons. She wouldn't need this. Witchcraft and spells and all these things that do not belong in her world. She would be here. She would be right here, holding her new baby, exhausted but happy, enjoying her maternity leave and her family and her life.

Why didn't she just stay home?

Grief hits you at the strangest times.

''Laurel?''

She lifts her head to look at Hanna. It takes her a second to realize that everyone is looking at her. It takes her even longer to realize that there are tears in her eyes.

''Are you all right?'' It's Cas who asks the question, softly, with a strange tone to his voice like he knows exactly what she was thinking.

''I - '' Laurel clears her throat and swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. ''Yes. Fine.'' She looks over at Hanna. ''Just out of curiosity,'' she starts. ''If I didn't do this, how - how long do you think I'd have?''

Hanna says nothing right away. She glances over at Dean like she's silently asking if it's a good idea to answer that question. He doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at Laurel and yet still somehow managing to avoid her eyes. ''With the severity of your symptoms,'' she begins slowly. ''Not long. The only reason you're even upright is because of the healing spell I gave you yesterday. It's working as a barrier to keep the worst of the symptoms at bay.''

''Theoretically,'' Laurel tries. ''If you just kept that charged up...''

''It wouldn't work,'' Hanna says gently. ''You'd still be very sick. It's not strong enough to combat this. I can already see it crumbling now. It's not enough to keep you here. Even if I kept it going, I don't think you'd...'' She pauses. ''You might make it through the night. You won't make it through tomorrow.''

''Laurel,'' Dean says her name in a sigh. ''If you don't want to do this - ''

''I don't,'' she says shortly. ''I don't want to put someone else in danger just to save me.''

''Just to save you,'' he parrots, exasperated. ''Because your life means so little?''

She doesn't know how to answer that. She doesn't know her life's worth. She doesn't even know what her life means. She never had a chance to figure that out.

''Look,'' Oliver says. ''Whoever does this with you will be a willing participant.''

''Absolutely,'' Hanna agrees. She sounds firm. ''I won't do this without the explicit consent of everyone involved.''

''See?'' He tosses an encouraging smile in Laurel's direction. ''Willing participant.''

''This is about choice, Laurel,'' Sara says. ''You have yours and they have theirs. No one is being forced to save you.''

The kitchen door swings open and Sam reappears, arms laden with the supplies Hanna asked for. ''Okay.'' Hanna accepts the mortar and pestle. ''What's the deal? Are we doing this or what?''

Laurel sighs and then pulls herself to her feet. Her tired body feels too heavy to be upright and just the movement of standing makes her dizzy. She feels a little drunk honestly. Which is…disconcerting. Given her history. She runs a hand through her hair. She makes a choice. She wants to live. If nothing else, she wants to be the one to take down this witch. ''We're doing this.''

''Great.'' Hanna's voice is clipped and professional. As soon as Laurel gives the greenlight, she visibly pours all of her focus into doing this spell. She looks grateful she doesn't have to pay attention to everyone else anymore. She digs out a small pocketknife, cuts open the brown paper bag, and pours the ingredients into the mortar. It looks like a mixture of dried herbs, dirt, some violet colored sand, and what looks like crushed leaves of some sort. It smells like lavender and thyme, even more so as Hanna grinds it all together, but there's another smell mixed in as well. Something sickly sweet and almost medicinal. It all smells very perfume-y. Cheap, sugary drugstore perfume to be exact. Like the body mist Laurel used to save up her allowance to buy when she was twelve.

''You know,'' Hanna muses, startling Laurel out of her thoughts. ''I've never done a spell on a famous person before.'' She adds two sprigs of rosemary from a small black pouch Mattie hands her.

''I'm not famous,'' Laurel says, which is becoming a weird reflex in this weird new unmasked life of hers.

''Netflix wants to do a documentary about you,'' Mattie informs her.

''Dateline did a two hour special on you,'' Hanna says.

Uh, well, that's a new one.

Laurel stares at the two, unblinking. Then she turns to Dean.

''Did I not...'' He winces. ''Tell you about that?'' He kind of laughs nervously and then ducks his head down to stare at the table.

''It was okay,'' Hanna says. She sounds pensive. ''It was called The Woman in Black. Not very original.'' She rolls another sprig of rosemary between her thumb and pointer finger. ''It was kind of boring though? Like, none of your family was involved. They talked to a few of your old classmates. Former clients. Stuff like that. But no family or close friends so it was lacking emotional impact.'' She tosses the rosemary in. ''It was dry.'' She digs around in the pouch and drops in two coins that look identical to the one from the goodie bag yesterday. Same silver coin. Same Celtic symbol. ''I'll need some blood,'' she says, abruptly switching topics. ''Some of yours,'' she moves her eyes to Laurel, ''and some from...'' She stops, looking out at everyone else expectantly. ''Whoever is going to do this with you.''

Dean doesn't even think about it. He steps right up to the plate and reaches for the pocketknife she has placed on the table. He just immediately goes for it, throwing himself into the fray.

Laurel has no problem understanding why. If the situations were reversed, she wouldn't hesitate to do this for him. But she's a hypocrite. When she sees him reach for that knife, a flood of horror rushes through her. ''No!''

He takes the knife anyway. ''Laurel - ''

''No.'' She shakes her head vehemently. ''Not you.''

He looks truly bewildered. ''Of course it's me.''

''We have a child,'' she begs. ''We're not leaving her an orphan.'' When it looks like he's going to argue, she cuts him off. ''I know, I know.'' She holds her hands up. ''Emergency eject button. You know as well as I do that life doesn't always go according to plan. We need to minimize the damage we could do to her. We are not leaving her alone out here.''

''Then it's me,'' Sara says easily, stepping forward to take the knife from Dean's hand. ''I'll do it.''

''Sara, no - ''

''I'll do it,'' Sam pipes up.

''Nyssa says she's on her way back now,'' Cas says, from where he's turned off speakerphone and held it to his ear, most likely because Nyssa is ranting in Arabic about this whole plan. ''Any one of us would be willing to - ''

Without warning, Oliver pops up behind Sara, snatches the knife away from her, and slashes his hand. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't announce what he's doing. He doesn't even ask. He just takes the knife from Sara, so abruptly it appears to startle her, and he slices his hand open. It happens to fast to protest. One minute, Sara is holding the knife. The next, Oliver is dribbling blood all over the table runner on the dining room table. He reaches out before anyone can say a word, holds his hand over the bowl, and squeezes. Droplets of blood splash onto the coins dropped into the mixture. He still doesn't say a word.

Nobody else does either.

For a long time, there is only deafening silence. After a minute or two, Dean, Sam, and Sara lean over to peer into the bowl.

''Huh,'' says Sam.

''I was not expecting that,'' adds Sara.

''Nyssa,'' Cas sighs. ''I'm going to have to call you back.''

Laurel barely hears any of that. She is too busy staring at Oliver in shock. He silently accept the handkerchief Cas hands him for his bloody hand and staunchly does not look at her. Out of everyone here, she never thought it would be him. The thought never even crossed her mind.

''Oliver,'' she says. ''Ollie.''

''It's not a big deal,'' he says, but he can't look at her when he says it. He looks at Hanna instead. ''I'll give her whatever she needs,'' he tells her. ''Do your spell.''

She does not look particularly impressed. In the quiet that settles over the room, she looks around at everyone's faces. Then she looks at Dean. ''Should I continue?''

His expression is hard to decipher. He doesn't look angry exactly. Doesn't look hurt either. He looks... Well, he looks grossed out. He looks repulsed by the idea of Oliver being the one to do this. Still, he doesn't object.

''I can do this,'' Oliver insists. ''I'm young, I'm fit, I'm healthy. I have energy to spare. I can give her what she needs. Laurel.'' Finally, he turns to look at her. ''I can do this for you. Please let me do this for you.''

She is feeling lost right now. She doesn't...understand this. Why would he want to do this for her? His selflessness has never extended to her before. Why now? She can't make her voice work, can't find the right words, but she gives Hanna a quick nod anyway. She doesn't know why Oliver would want to be connected to her for the rest of their lives when he doesn't even seem to like her half the time, but she's not the most selfless person ever. She wants to live. He's offering her a chance. She has to take it.

''If you get yourself killed and take her with you,'' Dean warns coldly. ''I will bring your stupid ass back to life just to kill you again. You hear me?''

Oliver sticks his nose up and glares.

Silently, definitely still in shock, Laurel reaches out, digs around in her husband's pocket, fishes out the dollar bill, and hands it back to Sara.

''Yep,'' Sara says. ''Yep, yep, yep, he won that round.''

''Man, who knew there was so much drama going on over here,'' Mattie mumbles. ''It's like Days of Our Lives up in this bitch.''

Numbly, Laurel struggles out of her flannel and allows Hanna to collect blood from her. She barely even winces when she slides the knife across her arm in a deep gash. Even when she squeezes blood from the deep cut, Laurel can barely feel it. She feels an itching and a mild burning, but mostly what she's feeling is stunned.

''Mattie,'' Hanna straightens and turns to him. ''Give me your Saint Christopher pendant.''

''What?'' He looks offended she would even ask. ''No.'' He splays a protective hand over his chest. ''Why?''

''She wants control of the spell. Hand it over.''

''But... But the whole football team got these for graduation.''

'' _Matteo_.''

''Ugh.'' He huffs and rolls his eyes. ''Fine.'' He plucks a pendant out from under his shirt and pulls the chain over his head. With a disgruntled grumble, he drops it into his sister's open palm. ''I can't have anything normal.''

''Whoa,'' Dean mutters under his breath. ''Teenage Sammy flashbacks.''

Sam responds, easily, ''Shut up, Dean.''

Hanna drops the chain into the bowl and it hits the bottom with an audible clink. She glances into the bowl, hums in apparent approval, and then adds a singular pinch of salt from the small dish Sam has brought her.

Now, Laurel's going to be honest here. She is utterly ignorant when it comes to matters of witchcraft. She has no idea what she's expecting. What she is not expecting is for the mixture to start bubbling. Despite the fact that the only liquid in the mostly dry mix of dirt, sand, herbs, and leaves is blood, it starts bubbling.

She watches in morbid fascination and muted horror as the blood begins to rise up and fill the bowl. At first, it's the deep rust color of blood, but then it begins to darken. Whatever is in that bowl boils and darkens and changes until it is this thick, viscous, black ooze that resembles tar. And it _smells_. It really smells. The foul odor starts out relatively mild but swiftly worsens until it becomes nearly unbearable. It is an eye-watering stench. It no longer smells like lavender and cheap perfume. It smells like fire and old blood and rotting meat.

The smell fills the room until Sam and Oliver are coughing, Sara is gagging, and Dean is rushing to open the dining room window, all the while grumbling unhappily about ''teenage witches fucking my house up.''

''That...'' Cas, with his shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth, has to pause, likely to stifle a gag. ''That is quite pungent.''

''Yep, that's a ripe one,'' Mattie agrees, but still, incredibly, starts poking at Hanna's abandoned bowl of soup.

''If it helps, this means it's working,'' Hanna says, even as she too stars looking queasy.

''It does not,'' Laurel says, accepting the flannel shirt that Dean hands her. She holds it over her nose but it doesn't manage to block out much.

''I'm gonna have to throw that mortar and pestle out, aren't I?'' He mutters, holding the sleeve of his Henley over his nose.

''Yep,'' she says, voice muffled by the shirt covering her face.

''Whatever you're doing better work, Disney Channel,'' he barks out, moving to stand by Laurel's side, keeping pressure on her bleeding arm.

Hanna doesn't answer, still staring down into the bowl, but she does smile. Her lips pull back into this wide, beaming, toothy grin of triumph. ''It already is.'' Without a flourish, she reaches into the bowl full of goo and plucks out one of the coins with the pair of tweezers. The coin is covered in the thick ooze. Until, just like that, it isn't. She turns the coin over, inspecting it closely. As she does, the black tar-like substance begins to evaporate. Like it is actually being sucked into the coin. Hanna's satisfied smile widens. It's incredibly unnerving, actually. She grabs the pocketknife and turns to approach Oliver. ''Arm please.''

Mystified, he holds out his arm.

She sighs. ''With the sleeve rolled up.''

He looks suspicious, but rolls up his sleeve. ''What are you - ''

''I'll need to cut you again,'' she says. ''BTW, for future reference, it's better to cut your arm for bloodletting. Not your hand.'' She looks down at his bloody hand in distaste. ''I know that's how they do it on TV shows, but you could really fuck up your hand.''

He stares at her. ''Noted.''

''Please do,'' she says dryly, and then makes quick work of carving up his arm.

Even from the other side of the table, Laurel can tell that it's a deep cut. Blood immediately gurgles up from the cut, drips down his arm, and sloshes onto the table. She has to look away. Normally the sight of blood doesn't bother her, but right now, just watching the blood splatter onto the table is making her nauseated and dizzy.

Oliver, stubbornly tough, does not show even a hint of discomfort besides a half second long grimace when the knife is first pressed to his flesh. Not until Hanna places the coin inside of his arm that is. Laurel doesn't mean to look, but she can't help herself. Curiosity has forever been one of her biggest vices. She looks over at the precisely wrong moment, just in time to see Hanna wiggling the coin into Oliver's open wound. Blood pours from the wound and Oliver, considerably paler than he was only seconds ago, hisses in pain as a foreign object is forced into his body.

She looks away as fast as she can, but the damage is already done. Her stomach leaps into her throat, threatening to upend its contents all over the dining room floor, and her vision goes murky.

''Oh,'' Sara's voice says, faraway. ''That cannot be sanitary.''

Oliver, voice tight with pain, asks, ''Why is this thing so hot?''

Laurel thinks she should warn someone that she's going to pass out, but she can't seem to get the words unstuck from her throat. There is an uncomfortable tingling and heaviness in her arms and legs. Her entire body feels like it's made of paper. She doesn't need to say anything, turns out, because Dean notices her swaying and maneuvers her into a chair. She closes her eyes tightly and puts her head between her knees while he holds her arm above her head.

''She's fine,'' he says. ''The blood's just -''

She doesn't hear the rest. She doesn't actually black out - or at least she doesn't think she does - but she blocks out everything that's going on around her to focus on her breathing. It's the nausea. She needs to get that shit under control. She really does not want to puke all over herself in front of everyone. That would not be a good day. Not that this has been a spectacular day so far.

''Laurel?'' There's a tapping on her knee. ''Are you okay?''

As cautiously as possible, she raises her head to look at Hanna. Only it is not Hanna kneeling in front of her. A smiling corpse is in her place. The body's mouth is too wide and its teeth are bloody and there are too many of them and maybe that's not a smile at all. White eyes, magnified by the mask it's wearing, burn into her. A hand, decomposing under those fingerless fishnet gloves, moves to her knee. She shrinks back in her chair, but can't get away.

''Laur.'' Dean's voice. Right in her ear. He sounds worried, but not freaked out by the corpse in their fucking dining room. He must not be able to see it. It must be just for her.

Everything goes fuzzy and there is a roaring in her ears. She blinks and shakes her head. When everything clears, it's Hanna kneeling there, and Dean is right beside her.

''I think she's getting worse,'' someone says.

''Then we need to do this fast,'' Hanna says. She must mistake the terror in Laurel's eyes for uncertainty because she asks, ''Are you sure you want to do this?''

Laurel tries to put the image of herself, undone, out of her mind. ''I'm sure.''

Hanna takes Laurel's bleeding arm and removes the cloth Dean has placed over it. She's holding the other coin in between the tweezers but before she can do anything with it, he reaches out and grasps onto her wrist, stopping her. ''Hold up, Halloweentown.'' He looks troubled. ''I need you to swear on your mother's life that what you're doing is going to help her and not hurt her.''

She looks surprisingly understanding of the ultimatum, although there is definitely an undercurrent of indignation in her blue eyes. She says, fervently, ''I swear on my mother's life, Dean. I swear on Mattie's life.''

He looks at her, then at her brother, and then he lets go of her wrist.

Laurel wisely decides to shut her eyes for this part. Having something shoved into an open wound is going to hurt no matter what. It's not a thing that's supposed to happen. Still, this is... It burns. The coin that is being pushed into her arm is blazing hot. It feels like the coin was kept over an open flame before it was placed into her body. Why is this thing so hot? It's an unforeseen amount of pain. She inhales sharply and grits her teeth against the searing pain. She grips her husband's hand as tightly as possible.

But that's it.

It hurts because there is something being shoved into a wound. Her body is reacting to this the way anyone's would. That's all she feels. Nothing else. When she opens her eyes, everyone is staring at her with such hope in their eyes. She hates to let them down. ''I... I don't feel any different,'' she admits, and looks back down at her bloody, mangled looking arm so she won't have to see their hopes fall.

''You...'' Hanna looks immensely discouraged. She looks floored. ''What?''

''Dude,'' Mattie's voice says. ''What'd you do?''

''Hanna,'' Dean sounds agitated and possibly on the brink of throwing her black goo out the open window. ''I thought you said - ''

''I know what I said!'' She looks like she is this close to stamping her foot on the ground. ''This should have worked!''

Laurel stares at her mangled arm. ''My arm itches.''

Hanna squints at her, then looks at the bowl of ooze, then back to Laurel, then at the ooze, and then - ''Oh!'' She brightens up, releasing a nervous sounding giggle. ''I forgot the names.'' She laughs again, a bit hysterical, and her cheeks redden. She grabs for the pen and paper and throws the tweezers at her brother's head when she catches him rolling his eyes at her. ''I need your full names,'' she says, glancing between Laurel and Oliver. ''I know yours is Dinah Laurel Lance, right? And...''

''Oliver Queen,'' Laurel provides, without even giving him a chance to answer. ''Oliver Jonas Queen. J-O-N-A-S.''

''Right.'' Hanna moves fast, tearing off two small scraps of paper and scribbling the names down. She crumples up the scraps and throws them into the magical tar. They sit on top of the substance for about a second before being pulled into the darkness. ''Well,'' she says. ''Get ready then.''

Laurel frowns. ''Get ready for wh - ''

Hanna tosses in another pinch of salt, and that's that. Before anyone can even blink, there is a flash of blinding light, a boom that shakes the house, and then there is only pain.

It is not something she can describe. It's like a scorching, blistering heat that explodes inside of her. It doesn't just happen in her arm. It happens everywhere. It's like there is a real fire inside of her, taking over, consuming her from the inside out. She means to open her mouth to ask what's happening to her. She screams instead. Not a Canary Cry but a real scream of pain that slips through her lips and pierces the air around her. She can't even see through the pain.

The pain shifts inside of her, like a living thing inside of her, slithering around her insides; becomes a bruising, immobilizing, paralyzing weight. It rams into her chest, steals her breath away, and then, mercifully, she passes out.

.

.

.

 **October, 2012**

 _It's late by the time they get home from the hospital, half past eleven, and all Laurel wants to do is sleep. Whatever adrenaline had been keeping her going seems to have dissipated and she is left in the swirling wake, exhausted, sore, and way too pregnant for this shit._

 _Dean is worried. It's not hard to tell. He was the one who pushed for her to be admitted overnight at the hospital. Had even seemed disappointed when she was given the all clear to head home. She understands his concern, but she's fine. Other than some bruising, some minor contractions that didn't amount to anything, and some trauma that will inevitably haunt her dreams for the next few nights, everything is all good. No preterm labor, baby's heartbeat is strong, little one's still kicking up a storm and moving around. Even her blood pressure was fine by the time she was discharged._

 _Tonight has been a long night, but it's over now and she just wants to go home. She's not being irresponsible. She let Dean and her dad convince her to go to the hospital to get checked out, spent a few hours hooked up to all kinds of monitors, got IV fluids to combat some mild dehydration, and set up an appointment with Alex for tomorrow morning just for extra peace of mind. She did everything right. Now she wants to rest._

 _She doesn't think any of that has comforted Dean. He keeps looking at her like he's seriously considering locking her in their bedroom until the baby is safely out of her so he can look after their daughter himself because Laurel is clearly doing a shit job of it._

 _He's been his usual attentive self, but something is off. He stayed right by her side in the hospital. Got her water and something to eat, held her hand, relayed all of her pertinent medical information to several different people, made sure they looked at the bruising on her neck, and even helped her and her IV to the bathroom. He just hasn't said much to her. He hasn't been engaging her in meaningless conversation just to keep her mind off of what's going on. Hasn't tried to distract her, to make her feel better, to assure her that none of what happened was her fault. She's not saying he needs to do that. Just that it's unusual that he hasn't. She knows how he works. He does things like that._

 _She does get why he's been off tonight. His pregnant wife, less than a month away from her due date, was involved in a prison riot. It was a situation that easily could have ended in a doubly tragedy. It almost did. She was strangled. If mom isn't getting enough oxygen, neither is baby. She understands the gravity of the situation. She has gone over it in her head a thousand times since it happened. She can't blame him for being shaken._

 _That doesn't mean the silence isn't jarring. They are so rarely silent in their relationship. People don't generally look at her and think 'oh yeah, that woman with the overly stiff posture and uptight personality must be a rowdy beast' but he brings it out in her. He was the one to break the silence she had settled into after Sara. He brought the laughter back. Gave her conversation and someone to wake up to in the middle of the night and ask ridiculous questions like, ''What if the baby gets so big and there's no more room for her and she just pulls an Alien and explodes out of me?''_

 _She doesn't know how to navigate the silence between them._

 _Dean is quiet the whole way home. Laurel dozes on and off during the short car ride home, but he doesn't say a word. She can feel his eyes on her every time they stop at a red light, but he never says anything. He only speaks up once they're both safely tucked away in their warm, dark, cozy apartment. ''Do you want something to eat?''_

 _She jumps at the unexpected sound of his voice, even though she shouldn't. Maybe she's more on edge than she realized. ''What?''_

 _''Are you hungry?'' He's facing away from her, a silhouette in the darkness._

 _Unbidden, it conjures up a memory of a few nights ago: coming home, all by herself, to a dark apartment with someone standing in the shadows, waiting for her. Only it wasn't Dean moving through the darkness that night. It was the hooded vigilante that's been set loose in this city. The same man who almost murdered someone in front of her tonight. Who almost murdered someone for her. Who didn't seem capable of stopping. She hasn't figured out what to do with that._

 _''You haven't eaten in hours,'' Dean goes on, completely unaware of her unease. He fishes her phone out of her purse, puts the purse on the couch, sets her briefcase down on her desk, and plugs her phone into the charger in the living room._

 _''I - I ate at the hospital,'' she says, fiddling with the sleeve of her father's jacket that he wrapped around her outside of the jail. She should make sure he gets his coat back. Nights can get cold here. He'll need his jacket._

 _''You had half a bag of stale peanuts from the vending machine,'' Dean says, and she can practically hear the disapproving frown in his voice. ''You need to eat something.'' He crosses the room, dropping the keys into the dish next to the door before flicking on the lights. Warm light floods the apartment and instantly, she feels better._

 _In the light, she can see that he looks tired. She really did a number on him tonight. That is one of her biggest regrets about what happened tonight. She never intended to worry her husband or her father or Tommy. She hadn't expected there to be violence. She knew Jason Brodeur was a criminal. She understood that he was corrupt and that going after him came with risks, but she didn't think he would put a hit out on a pregnant woman. That was her mistake. He had a woman murdered in front of her baby girl. She should have known there were no lines._

 _It takes her a second to realize that Dean's eyes keep moving to her throat now that the light is on and it takes her another second for her to understand why. Bruises. There are bruises. Automatically, in an effort to protect him or maybe to protect herself, she ducks her head to hide them from view and brings a hand up to cover them._

 _Dean moves past it, helping her out of the coat and suggesting, ''I could make you some eggs. Or grilled cheese. You've been on a big grilled cheese kick lately.''_

 _She tries not to grimace at the mention of food. She doesn't know if she can stomach much right now. The nausea that plagued her during the first trimester has persisted well into the third trimester. It's not nearly as bad as it was then, thankfully, but she still feels like crap most of the time and it gets so much worse if she's all keyed up. ''I don't know.'' She toes off her shoes and makes her way over to the couch, easing herself down onto the soft cushions. She thinks a good portion of the soreness is related to the normal pregnancy aches and pains and most likely some of it is just from being so tense for so long but her back and hips are killing her right now. She has to think that being thrown onto a cold concrete jailhouse floor probably did not help with her discomfort. ''Maybe something small,'' she suggests. ''I'm not really hungry. I just want to sleep.''_

 _He looks at her for a minute, head cocked to the side, expression indiscernible. ''What about cereal? You love cereal.''_

 _She swallows a sigh. He is not going to let this go. ''Okay.''_

 _''Great. I'll make you some tea too,'' he declares. ''Peppermint, right?'' He doesn't even give her the chance to respond before he's gone._

 _She watches him go and then releases a breath, sinking back into the pillows on the couch. The baby's still kicking up a storm, more so than she usually does at this time of night. Shifting around too, like she can't quite get comfortable. Laurel rubs at her belly and wonders if babies can feel fear in utero. Was her daughter scared earlier? Could she feel her mother's stress, anxiety, and terror? She must have felt it when her mom was tossed around like a rag doll and strangled. Must have at least been jostled around in there. Was she scared?_

 _Laurel squeezes her eyes shut and takes in a few shaky breaths. Her baby is fine. She tries to hold onto that. Baby Girl Winchester's heartbeat is strong and steady. On the ultrasound, she was happily chilling out in there, sucking on her thumb, all curled up and comfy, seemingly completely unaware of her parents' stress. She's a Winchester. She's a Lance. One little prison riot is not going to get her down._

 _Laurel gives herself another minute to breathe, and then she decides to focus on her kick count. It's not strictly necessary tonight - she knows for a fact that the baby is fine - but she does it anyway. Kick counts are not meant to be used as a foolproof diagnostic tool, but that certainly hasn't stopped Laurel from doing them religiously and getting way too into them. Once, a few weeks back, she wound up calling her midwife in tears at three in the morning because the baby hadn't moved in over an hour. Alex calmly instructed her to A) drink a large glass of ice cold juice and B) ''wake Dean up and get him to sit with you because you're spiraling.''_

 _Despite that whole ordeal, most of the time, she finds the practice to be quite soothing. They do this every night, her and her girl. It's their first Mommy & Me activity._

 _She closes her eyes and counts the movements - every little kick, every roll, every jab. ''I'm sorry,'' she murmurs, without opening her eyes. ''For what I got us into tonight. You didn't sign up for that.'' That's all she's able to get out before she hears Dean coming and shuts her mouth. She opens her eyes just in time to see him take a seat across from her, perched on the coffee table._

 _''Here.'' He holds a glass of water out to her._

 _Reluctantly, she sits up straight and accepts the glass of water. She takes a small, cursory sip of the water, wincing slightly and moving a hand to her throat. She knows she got off easy with just a minor scratchy and sore throat, but it's the reminder of what happened that gets her._

 _''Remember to take slow sips,'' Dean advises, putting a bottle of Gatorade on the table next to him. ''It's going to hurt to swallow for awhile.'' He doesn't seem to be in any big hurry to go get her that bowl of cereal he had been so adamant about her having. He sits there, eyes on her, without saying a word, until she has finished the entire glass, and then he mumbles something about getting her food and disappears again._

 _He's angry. She can't tell if he's angry at her or at the person who did this to her or even at the vigilante for getting her involved in this, but she knows her husband and she knows that this cold silence of his is anger._

 _It's strange that she's not angry, to be honest. It's even stranger that she's not panicking. This feels like the type of situation that would normally flatten her. Especially being pregnant. This pregnancy has shredded her mental health. For this entire pregnancy, she has been sick, sore, and completely out of control. Stands to reason what happened tonight could be a big trigger for those issues. She should be a mess right now. ...But she's not. There have been a few moments tonight where she's had to stop and concentrate on her breathing, but she's not panicking. She's not freaking out, her mind isn't going in fifteen different directions, she's not lost in some whirlwind of self-hatred and depression. She's...okay, actually._

 _Maybe she's in shock._

 _She puts the empty glass on the table before struggling to her feet. She grabs the bottle of Gatorade and heads to the bedroom, calling out that she's going to lie down as she passes by the kitchen. She takes her time to remove her makeup and wash her face in the bathroom, but she's too tired to have a shower or run a bath. She doesn't even bother to pull her pajamas out of the drawer. She just peels off her sweater and skirt and grabs one of Dean's t-shirts from the floor beside the hamper. She should probably just suck it up and wear her own clothes instead of stretching out another one of his shirts but she can't say she feels too bad about it. It's not her fault men's clothes are more comfortable than women's. She pulls the shirt over her head and crawls into bed, burrowing herself under the covers. She still does not feel panicky. Mostly what she feels is a grim sort of satisfaction._

 _Peter Declan is an innocent man. He was about to be executed. Now he gets to live. It really is that simple. He gets to go home to his daughter. It's not going to be an easy road for either of them, not with the trauma of what happened and the grief they'll carry with them for Camilla, but they'll be together. She did what she had to do to make that possible. Maybe working with an unstable and violent serial killer was not the wisest decision she has ever made, but this is the world we live in. Sometimes the enemy of your enemy is your friend. As frustrating and scary as it is to admit, sometimes justice lives in the in between. She never used to think that, but you get a crash course in the way the world works when you get involved with Dean Winchester._

 _When your father is a cop - and his father before him - you grow up believing the law is something sacred to be protected. It's where justice begins and ends. Laurel was not immune to that flawed ideology. She's a lawyer. Clearly the law is something important to her. It used to be comforting. Something to fall back on. A safety net. Then she met Dean and learned that there is a whole other world out there, hiding in the shadows. Justice, within that world, looks very different. The hunting world is violent and bloody and lawless. It's like a western or a rejected Stephen King novel. Buffy meets Butch Cassidy. The dark, seedy underbelly of normal. Yet somehow, it works. People keep being drawn into that world and despite everything, they manage to create lives for themselves there. They forge relationships and families. They find justice. They help._

 _It has never been her world, she's always been just on the fringes of it, the outside looking in, but she's grown to understand it. Accept it, even. She married a vigilante. She's having a baby with a criminal. She understands that in this world of shadows and shades of gray, there will occasionally be a need for lawlessness._

 _This was one of those times. It shouldn't be different just because she was the one taking the case._

 _Working with the man in the hood was a mistake. He's reckless and unpredictable, but inserting herself into this case was the right thing to do. She knows that in her bones. She wouldn't take it back._

 _Laurel takes another sip of the Gatorade even though she isn't thirsty and grabs her pregnancy pillow from the floor beside the bed. Even with this giant contraption of a pillow, it's hard to find a comfortable position to lay in. Her due date is right around the corner. Everything hurts at this point. She's struggling with the giant pillow, tossing and turning in discomfort, when the door opens. She lifts her head to look at the heaping tray of food Dean's carrying. ''That's a lot more than just a bowl of cereal.''_

 _He shrugs it off. ''Thought I'd give you options.''_

 _Options, it seems, include a bowl of cereal, a mug of peppermint tea, a grilled cheese, a sleeve of Ritz crackers, a bag of pretzels, and a protein bar. It's a lot. Every single thing on that tray will give her heartburn. Although, with that said, everything gives her heartburn these days. She gets heartburn just from drinking water. She does have to admit she is getting a little hungry now that she's had a chance to calm down slightly. She hasn't eaten a lot today._

 _Laurel sits up and plucks the crackers and the bowl of cereal from the tray when he lowers it down to her level. ''Do we have Zantac? Eating this late is going to give me wicked heartburn.''_

 _He sets the tray down on her nightstand and mutters, ''I'll go check.'' He's still not looking at her much. It's not the norm. He has yet to crack one single joke. That's usually what he would be doing right about now; making corny jokes that he knows are stupid just to make her laugh. He does that. He's always done that. Not tonight._

 _She munches on a few bites of the Cheerios and dutifully takes a few more sips of the Gatorade. When he comes back into the bedroom, he tosses the package of Zantac onto the bed, eyes her just long enough to make sure she's eating, and then busies himself with mindless chores around the bedroom. He even starts picking up his dirty clothes from beside the hamper and putting them into the hamper, which he never does. He's avoiding her._

 _She frowns and puts the bowl of cereal back onto the tray. ''Dean - ''_

 _''How are those contractions coming?'' He asks, back to her._

 _''Gone,'' she says. ''The doctor said - ''_

 _''The doctor said you were lucky,'' he says, whirling around to face her._

 _She presses her lips together and looks at him for a long time. ''You're mad at me.''_

 _He doesn't respond to that, turning his back to her once again. She doesn't push the issue right away. She cradles her belly protectively and tries not to overthink this too much. She knows, in the back of her mind, that he's just scared, but the irrational, super pregnant and hormonal part of her can't help but worry. She doesn't like fighting with him. It tends to trigger her abandonment issues. Which is her issue and not his, but she would still rather avoid arguing. She likes to think that her marriage is solid, but she also thought her parents' marriage was solid and look what happened there._

 _They have had a really rough year, is the thing, and it feels like they've just managed to get themselves and their relationship back on track within the past few months. She wants to keep that going. She doesn't want to do anything to jeopardize that. With the baby coming, they need to be a team now more than ever. ''Listen,'' she starts. ''I know you're upset. Tonight's been - ''_

 _''You almost died in a prison riot,'' he cuts her off, voice cold. He still doesn't turn around to face her. ''Both of you. Do you get that?''_

 _''Of course I get that,'' she says, trying not to sound overly defensive. ''But I didn't. We didn't. We're okay, Dean.''_

 _''So - What?'' He finally turns around. ''You're just going to brush it off?''_

 _''I'm not brushing anything off!'' The baby delivers a swift kick to her right kidney and she inhales sharply. Great. Her daughter's not even born yet and she's already picking sides. She breathes out through her mouth and waves him off when he takes a step in her direction, corners of his mouth pulled down in worry. ''I'm okay,'' she assures him. ''Just a kick.'' She heaves herself out of bed and moves over to him. ''She's okay,'' she tells him. ''Look.'' She takes his hand and places it on her belly. She's hoping if he feels their daughter kicking and moving around, he'll calm down. ''She's okay,'' she says again._

 _He softens slightly, but does not look sufficiently calmed. ''You just couldn't stay out of this one, could you?'' He doesn't say it rudely. He sounds matter of fact about it. He doesn't take his eyes off her bump._

 _''If I had, I wouldn't be the woman you married,'' she reminds him._

 _He lifts his eyes to her, retracting his hand. ''The woman I married was beaten and strangled tonight.''_

 _She cringes at the wording. ''I wasn't beaten.''_

 _He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. She watches him distance himself from her, heading over to the other side of the room to change his clothes. He doesn't need to go all the way over to the other side of the room to do that. She crosses her arms over her stomach. She's not sure what he wants her to say. She understands he's feeling scared and helpless - and angry that he's helpless - but what was she supposed to do? Tonight was a bad night, she's not going to deny that, but she doesn't believe what she did was wrong._

 _''I don't like the way things went down tonight, but I don't regret stepping in,'' she says. ''Peter Declan was going to die. He was going to be executed for something he didn't do. I had to do something. He has a little girl.''_

 _Dean laughs, but it's humorless. He tugs a t-shirt over his head and turns to look at her. ''We have a little girl,'' he says. ''When does she get to be the one you protect?''_

 _Laurel stares at him, mouth agape. The words feel like a slap in the face. There is this enormous feeling of anger and hurt, a sickness swirling in her gut, but she doesn't know what to do with it. She doesn't want to fight with him. Not when she knows they're just going to go in circles. She expects that kind of thing to come out of her father's mouth. She doesn't expect it to come out of Dean's. Her father, whether he's aware of it or not, has always relied far too heavily on guilt trips and emotionally manipulating her into doing what he thinks she should be doing. She and Dean don't do that with each other. At least they're not supposed to._

 _She has spent her entire pregnancy petrified. Scared out of her mind about being a mom. She doesn't know if it's something she'll be good at, if it's something she has in her, and she so badly does not want to damage her child the way her mother damaged her. Dean knows that. He knows all of that and he still said what he said._

 _''I will always protect our daughter,'' she spits out. Her voice shakes when she says it. She tries to pretend it's from the anger and not because she feels like she's about to burst into tears._

 _Dean, she supposes to his credit, does not dig the knife in deeper. He looks fairly contrite, at least about the cold tone of his voice, but he doesn't offer her an apology. ''You knew Brodeur was dangerous,'' he says. ''You knew he had someone murdered and you still went right up to him and threatened him right to his face.''_

 _Yes, well... Maybe threatening to ''pull on the loose end until his whole world unravels'' was too bold. One might even consider it hot headed. ''I was doing what I thought was right,'' she says, albeit somewhat weakly._

 _''Laurel, your due date is in less than three weeks.''_

 _''Someone needed to fight for Declan!''_

 _''Why did that someone have to be you?''_

 _''It's my job.''_

 _''It's not your job to put yourself in danger,'' he argues. ''And that's not why you did this. You did this because he asked you to.''_

 _She raises her eyes to him. She opens her mouth to deny this, but nothing comes out._

 _''You lied to me,'' he tells her. ''You said that case just fell into your lap.''_

 _''It - It did,'' she says. ''I just...didn't tell you how.''_

 _He scoffs. ''A lie of omission is still a lie. You've said that exact thing to me before.''_

 _She averts her gaze. ''I know.''_

 _''This guy came to you,'' he says. ''To you, Laurel. He chose you. All the lawyers in this city, and he deliberately chose you. You ever wonder why?''_

 _Her expression darkens. ''Don't.''_

 _''Don't you think it would explain a lot of things?'' He demands. ''They both showed up in town at the same time. He spent five years on a deserted island. You have no idea what happened to him there or how he's changed.''_

 _''He hasn't changed,'' she bites out impatiently. ''He's still the same selfish playboy he was. Oliver is not the vigilante.''_

 _Dean doesn't look like he believes her. ''So not even a tiny part of you believes it could be possible?'' He shakes his head. ''He asked you to do this and you just - you did it. You didn't even think about turning him down. Was that because of Peter Declan or because deep down you know who's behind that hood?''_

 _''Oh my god,'' she deadpans. ''That's what this is about? You think Oliver's the Hood and you're jealous?''_

 _''No, Laurel, this is about you putting yourself in - ''_

 _''Arrow Guy, whoever he is,'' she cuts him off, voice sharp, ''is a means to an end. I don't care who he is or why he's doing this, but he had information that helped me with my case. That's all it was. Nothing more. I have zero interest in him outside of what he can do for me. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't want you to worry.''_

 _''I'm worried,'' he says. ''You are not a vigilante. You're a lawyer.''_

 _She has no idea why that stings the way it does. She knows exactly why it makes her so angry. She narrows her eyes at him and folds her arms like she's trying to physically block this conversation. ''I worried about you,'' she tells him. ''I worried about you every single day.''_

 _He lets out a long suffering sigh as if she's just being irrational or hormonal. ''Laurel - ''_

 _''You hunted monsters,'' she snarls. ''Monsters, Dean. Things that could have killed you with a snap of their fingers. And I stood by your side. I stood by your side every day while you made the choice to do that. You were gone for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. I remember one time I went ten days without talking to you. Almost two weeks without knowing if you were alive or dead because you wouldn't answer your phone. There was nothing I could do but wait for someone to tell me what was going on. And I never - not once - made you feel like shit. Because what you were doing was important and I recognized that. You were helping people. Who was I to stand in the way of that?''_

 _He does not seem at all subdued. There is a fraction of a second where he almost looks remorseful for his hypocrisy, but it passes and he fixes his gaze into a stony frown, choosing instead to double down on his anger. ''You really can't see a difference between what I used to do and what you're doing now? You're pregnant.''_

 _''But I won't be forever,'' she warns. ''That can't be your excuse to control me - ''_

 _''You think this is about controlling you? Laurel, I don't want to watch you fucking die!'' He looks like he's about ready to start pacing and pulling out his hair. ''What's the plan here? Huh? Are you planning on doing something like this again? Are you gonna squeeze the kid out and then go run off with the idiot in the hood who thinks he's fucking Legolas?''_

 _''No!'' She bursts out. ''No, that's not what I'm - I don't give a shit about the guy in the hood! How many times do I have to say that? This isn't about him,'' she says honestly. ''This is about this city. You don't understand. You can't.'' She doesn't know how to say this to him, how to explain it, how to put into words. He won't understand how she's feeling. It's like there's this pressure building up inside of her. She can't figure out what it is that she's been searching for, but she is searching. It has nothing to do with him or the baby. She loves her family. It's not that. It's...something else. She doesn't know what. She's never known._

 _She has everything. An amazing husband, a soon to be daughter, lots of loving friends and family, a career that she fought for, that she loves and that she's good at, and a rent controlled apartment in the heart of the city she grew up in. She should be happy. She should be content and fulfilled. But she's not. She has tried to ignore it, to pretend it's not there, but she can't make it go away. There is an emptiness inside of her that can't be filled._

 _Laurel does not believe in destiny. She has never believed the concept of 'everything in its place/everything happens for a reason.' That's too easy. Still, she can't deny the fact that for her whole life she's had this tugging feeling deep inside of her. It's as if she is being pulled toward something unknown, something she's never quite been able to see and never been able to reach._

 _These past few days, working with the Hood, helping Peter Declan, going against everything she's been raised to believe in... It felt like she was getting closer to something. It felt like she was going in the direction of whatever it is that the universe seems to want her to see. She doesn't know what that means yet, but she thinks she might want to find out._

 _''This place is getting worse,'' she says quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ''This isn't the Starling City I grew up in. It's not the place my grandfather used to tell me about.'' She lays a hand atop her bump, smoothing down the t-shirt. ''This is my home,'' she tells him. ''But as it is right now, I'm not sure Starling is the place I want our daughter to grow up in. It's toxic here.'' She cringes when she admits that and tries to tamper down the guilt rising in her chest. She is nothing if not fiercely loyal. She's been attached to this city for her entire life. Couldn't imagine living anywhere else. It's home, for better or worse. But, over the past few years, it's hard not to notice how things have been changing. Home is burning. ''This city used to be safer. It used to be better. Now it's run on greed and selfishness and corruption. The people here need change.''_

 _''Then get involved with local politics,'' he says, which is a weird sentence to hear Dean Winchester say seriously. ''Run for Mayor. Or City Council. I'll help you. I'll do anything you want. I'll stand by your side, I'll make campaign buttons, I'll put on a suit and parade around as your trophy husband. Or you could volunteer. Or, hey, better yet, run your legal aid office. Save the city that way. Just... Just...'' He deflates, letting out a long sigh and bringing a hand up to rub at his forehead in exhaustion. ''I can't lose you,'' he says, and then, again, ''I can't lose either of you. I need you.''_

 _She looks up at him, swallowing hard. She can't begrudge him for his fear. She just...also can't feel quite as guilty as he thinks she should. ''You won't lose me,'' she murmurs. ''I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I lied.'' She gets to her feet and shuffles over to him, touching his face briefly, and then his neck. ''I'm sorry I put her in danger. But I'm okay.'' She smiles at him. ''I didn't die in a prison riot. I'm not going to die in a prison riot.''_

 _He relaxes at her soft touch and lets out a breath, but he still doesn't look placated or convinced so she wraps her arms around him in a hug and hopes that will be enough. She can feel him sigh into her neck, holding onto her tightly. When she pulls away, she makes sure to give him a bright smile and places a hand on his cheek once more, leaning in to kiss him softly on the lips._

 _It's hard not to notice that he doesn't kiss her back._

 _He looks at her closely when she steps back from him, seemingly searching her expression for something. ''You still stand by what you did, don't you?''_

 _She draws in a breath and lets it out. Then repeats. Truthfully? She absolutely does. 100%. ''Yes,'' she admits. ''I do.''_

 _''Babe,'' his voice is soft but tired. ''You can't save everyone.'' He says that with the certainty and the exhaustion of someone who has had to learn that particular lesson in violent, tragic, and bloody ways._

 _She does understand that. She knows that loss is a part of life. That doesn't mean she shouldn't try to minimize it. ''Maybe not,'' she says, ''but I can try.''_

 _He looks... She doesn't know. She doesn't know what that expression on his face means. He tilts his head to the side and stares at her, lips pinched together, eyes narrowed slightly, but then he relaxes. His shoulders droop, the lines on his face smooth out, and he just sighs and leans in to kiss her forehead. ''Okay,'' he says to her. ''Then I'm with you.'' He smiles at her. It's a genuine smile, but he looks..._

 _He looks scared. Scared but proud._

 _''You want to take on the world,'' he says, ''I'll be right by your side. I mean that.'' He clasps her hand in his, bringing it up to hold against his chest, right above his heart. ''I'm on your team, Laurel. I'm always on your team. Just... Please don't try to do these things alone, okay? Let me in. Let me help.''_

 _She licks her lips. She thinks she can give him that. ''Deal,'' she smiles. ''It does have a certain ring to it, doesn't it?'' She asks. ''You and me against the world?''_

 _He lets out a chuckle that sounds more tired than anything else. ''A force to be reckoned with, I'm sure.''_

 _She studies his face carefully for a moment, trying to make sure that they really are okay. Maybe they just need to get some sleep. It's been a long, stressful night. ''All right.'' She leans in to kiss his cheek softly and then steps back. ''I'm going to the bathroom because your daughter is doing a tiny fetus rendition of Puttin' On the Ritz on my bladder and then I'm going to eat that grilled cheese.'' She tries for a laugh as she starts on her way to the bathroom. ''I hope you're ready to hear me complain about my heartburn all night.''_

 _''Laur,'' he calls after her, and something about the tone of his voice makes her stop in her tracks in the doorway. ''What are you going to do when they pull that hood back and Oliver Queen's the one staring back?''_

 _She doesn't turn around immediately. She's not proud of it, but she has to admit her heart plummets at the thought. ''It's not Oliver.''_

 _''How can you be so sure?''_

 _She inhales sharply. She turns around. She thinks of the only answer she can give him. It won't be enough, but it's the truth. ''...Because I don't want it to be him.''_

 _''We don't always get what we want,'' he warns._

 _Yes. She has spent her entire life learning that lesson._

 _''Oliver Queen is not the man under the hood,'' she says firmly, so firmly it's like she's trying to make it true just by being adamant enough. ''This guy - as unstable as he may be - is actually capable of caring about the lives of other people.'' Her expression darkens. ''I learned a long time ago that Oliver never thinks about anyone but himself. It's not him. Trust me. He doesn't have it in him.''_

 _''Well, I hope you're right,'' Dean says. ''Because whoever this guy is...'' He pauses, and then clears his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. ''He sure does like you.''_

.

.

.

 **November, 2016**

Laurel awakens with the sound of screaming in her head.

She opens her eyes to darkness and, for a split second, thinks she is right back where she started from; in that grave, that blue sleeveless dress, those black pumps, the clothes they put her in, the hole they dug for her.

Then her vision clears and she recognizes, with a thundering sense of relief, the familiar four walls of her and Dean's bedroom. She closes her eyes again. She floats there for a moment, not asleep but not quite all the way awake, feeling safe in the comforting space, and then she remembers -

The spell.

A gasp catches in her throat and her eyes snap open. With a strangled cry, she bolts upright, throws off the covers, and moves to leap out of bed.

''Whoa, whoa, Laurel.'' There are hands on her, familiar hands, gently forcing her to sit back down on the bed. ''Take it easy,'' the voice says. Dean, right there with her. ''Slow down, honey. There's no rush. You're okay.''

She grasps onto his hand and chooses to heed his warnings, giving herself a moment to catch her breath and breathe. ''The spell,'' she gets out. ''How - How - ''

''Hanna says it's all good.'' He looks at her with a cautious gaze. ''How do you feel?''

She looks at him blankly for a second and then realizes - oh. She feels...

She feels fine.

She feels _good_ even. She looks down at herself. She doesn't know why she's expecting herself to look different but she's almost a little disappointed when she looks at herself and realizes she looks the same. She feels like she should be changed somehow. She sure doesn't feel the same. She feels relieved. That's the only way to put it. The feeling of physical relief is so enormous she almost starts crying right then and there.

She feels like herself again.

It is like a giant weight has been lifted off her. Her heavy bones don't feel so heavy anymore. The nausea, the dizziness, the exhaustion, the aches and pains, the feverish feeling, the raw tenderness of her wound - It feels like the pain is all evening out, draining away, away. There is still some mild discomfort leftover but it's easing with every passing second.

She looks at him and all that wild, bright hope in his eyes. ''I feel better,'' she tells him. She has been waiting so long to tell him that. ''I feel okay. I'm awake now.'' She doesn't know what she means by that. She decides to smile at him, big, bright, and beaming because she wants him to smile back.

 _I'm home now,_ she considers telling him. _I've come home._

''You - '' He breaks off as if he can't dare to go on. A breath seems to catch in his throat and then his expression and body language shift, and he smiles back.

It's like seeing him for the first time again.

He has been so distracted ever since she came back. He's been tense and worried and on edge, weighed down by fear and exhaustion. Paralyzed by the looming unknown. He doesn't sleep well most nights. He has nightmares and tries to pretend he doesn't. He lied to her about what was happening with the spell. What was happening to her own body. He has been trying so hard, too hard, to be okay, to take care of everything without letting anyone know what's wrong, but he's been off. He hasn't been himself. She hasn't been herself either.

When she tells him she feels better, it's like he comes back to life too. Even if it's just for this moment. Even if the spell is a temporary band aid. Even if there is still some crazy witch out there haunting their lives. It's a good minute they have here now. Sometimes you just have to take those as they come.

He says her name tenderly and then he just wraps her up in this big bear hug and holds her tight. She hugs him back just as tightly and closes her eyes.

She knows she should be wary. Concerned about the consequences of the spell, the endless list of things that could go wrong. She's not. For this one moment, this one second where her head is clear and her breathing is easy, she would like everything to be okay. And so everything is.

It's a very short moment.

When she opens her eyes again, she looks at her reflection in the mirror of her vanity.

Her rotting, decaying, lipless, white-eyed reflection, eyes unseeing behind the mask that killed her, still smiling that bloody, ravenous smile.

Laurel does not startle this time. She thinks of Dinah Ellard walking into the water and blood calling to blood and the witch wearing Tommy's face and making threats and promises and declarations of war and greed.

 _I've been calling you,_ the witch said. _You and I,_ the witch said. _We have a connection,_ the witch said, with Tommy's smile, Tommy's voice. _Can't you feel that? Come on. You can't tell me you haven't noticed. That little nagging tug inside? That bone deep ache? That's me, sweetheart._

Laurel stares back at the grotesque dead bird in the mirror with defiance. She thinks, with enough heat to light a fire, _You can't have me._

Somewhere, the witch shudders.

She only looks away from the mirror when Dean pulls back from the hug. When she glances back, her reflection is normal. He brings a hand up to cup her cheek. ''Are you sure you're okay?''

''I am,'' she says honestly. ''I feel stronger now.''

Strong enough, one might even say, to fight back.

There's a knock on the door and then Hanna pokes her head inside with an uneasy smile. ''Hi,'' she greets. ''I don't mean to interrupt - ''

''It's okay,'' Laurel says. She lets Dean help her to her feet and is pleasantly surprised when she can stand on her own two feet without feeling lightheaded.

''I don't want to bother you,'' Hanna says politely, although she has zero qualms about stepping into the bedroom and shutting the door behind her. ''But Oliver's awake, which means you are too.''

Oh.

Oh, that's right. Ollie. He's done this for her. He's the one left holding the rope. He's the one standing between her and another painful death. She'd almost forgotten about him. Laurel looks down at the floor. How unexpected.

How utterly unexpected and yet somehow completely unsurprising all at the same time.

She lifts her eyes. ''Is he okay?''

''Oh, he's fine.'' Hanna waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. ''The initial draining might leave him tired for today - just because you need more of a recharge than usual right now - but he'll be fine after a good night's sleep. He'll probably sleep better than he has in years.'' She clasps her hands together and drifts around the room, studying it with an overly critical eye. She hums in almost snobbish distaste at one of the pieces of artwork hanging on the wall.

It's still hard to tell Hanna from Heather with this girl. The truth from the lie. She's not the meek, mousey girl she pretended to be, but Laurel is not all that convinced she's this hardass, uppity temporary coven leader either. She thinks this might be a show too. An attempt to act the part. She has a feeling the real Hanna Moretti is most likely an in between. She thinks, more than anything, that this kid is scared. That, she can understand. That, she can deal with.

''He really is fine,'' Hanna says, when she catches sight of the look on Laurel's eyes, mistaking the look in her eyes for concern. ''You both are. The spell's locked in tight now. See?'' She nods to Laurel's arm, the one that had been, at one time, bleeding.

Laurel looks down at her arm, expecting to see a bandage or maybe some smears of dried blood. There's nothing. There's no cut, no bandage, no scar, no weird lump indicating the coin is there underneath her skin. The only sign that something has happened, the only thing that remains is a tattoo. The thick vine snakes down her arm, coils around her wrist and goes all the way down her hand and to the tips of her fingers. It curves upward as well, disappearing up the sleeve of her t-shirt. It's an intricate design; a spiraling winding vine full of thorns and little buds; flowers that haven't bloomed yet. If she looks at it closely for long enough, the vine almost looks like it's moving, swaying in imaginary wind.

''Hmm.'' She raises an eyebrow. ''Don't remember signing up for any tacky tattoos.''

Hanna chuckles, unruffled. ''It's not a tattoo,'' she says. ''It's a mark. Every spell leaves one. This is just more noticeable than others. It will dissipate once the spell is broken.''

Laurel turns her arm over to inspect the vine wrapped around her arm, nestled into her skin like it belongs there. Not exactly a tattoo she would have chosen for herself. She makes a fist, watching as the ones extending to her fingertips move fluidly with her. ''Hmm,'' she says again. Guess it's a small cosmetic price to pay.

''How are you feeling?''

Laurel looks away from the vine and back at Hanna. ''Better than I have in months,'' she says. Truthfully, she feels better than she did even before April. She knows most of her fatigue and nausea from her final weeks can be blamed on the pregnancy but she hasn't felt this energized in so, so long. She feels electrified.

Hanna smiles. ''I'm happy to hear that. Anyway, um,'' she clears her throat. ''I just wanted to bring you this.'' She holds up a chain. It's the Saint Christopher medallion she swiped from Mattie. There is not a trace of the tar-like sludge on it. ''This is your link,'' she explains. ''Or the tangible manifestation of it anyway.'' She steps closer to place it around Laurel's neck. ''If you ever need to break the spell for whatever reason, you need to break this. You'll need to destroy it. Burn it. Smash it. Whatever. Hopefully you won't need to do that, but the panic button is here if you need to press it.''

Laurel touches a hand to the medallion. It feels warm. She can't tell if that's because it's been in Hanna's hand or because it's essentially acting as a magical battery. ''Thank you, Hanna,'' she says. ''Really.'' She reaches out to touch her arm, but stops short of pulling her in for a hug. ''Thank you.''

Hanna looks uncomfortable with the gratitude. ''It was nothing.'' She straightens up promptly, plastering on a serious look. ''Now we can get to work.''

Dean raises his eyebrows at the order. ''Work?''

''You get my mom back,'' she says solemnly. ''I get to work on the resurrection seal. That's the deal, right?''

''That's the deal,'' he confirms.

''We will bring her home,'' Laurel says, a promise she knows is unwise but can't help making.

''You know,'' he begins, sounding a little too casual. ''I'm happy Laurel's feeling better - believe me,'' he turns to look at her, ''you have no idea how thrilled I am. But here's the thing, Practical Magic.'' He looks pointedly at Hanna. ''I can't help but think about the last spell you and your, uh, coven cast on my wife. This spell - It's stable? It won't break down like the other?''

She looks miffed at the dig, but she can't really argue with his points. ''No,'' she says. ''This is a strong, healthy spell. It's doing exactly what it's meant to do and it's going to continue doing what it's meant to do - holding both you and the other spell up - until either you or I break it and not a second before.'' She goes for a smile. It looks real enough. ''You're safe for now.'' She looks in between them both for a second, eyes lingering on Dean. ''Oliver Queen did that,'' she reminds them, looking far too satisfied when Dean bristles. ''I'd thank him for that if I were you. Although I suppose there's no rush.'' She turns to leave. ''After all,'' she says over her shoulder, right before she steps out of the room and closes the door behind her. ''You're bound together forever now.''

Well, okay then. Someone certainly doesn't appreciate having her power questioned. Yikes. Good to know that despite the witch thing and the unconventional life she lives, she is still a petty teenager at heart. It may be the most normal thing about her.

Laurel looks over at Dean, pushing back a sigh.

The issue here is not that Oliver has essentially sacrificed himself to save her. It's not the energy transfer itself. It's the connection. It's the fact that, even after the spell is broken, some of that connection will remain for the rest of their lives. That is the issue.

Oliver has always been a complication for them. Even before he came back. Her unhealthy relationship with him and the damage it did is such a huge part of her insecurities that it has seeped into every aspect of her life, including her marriage. Not to mention ever since he came back, he has been a huge source of grief, anger, hurt, and frustration. Now, no matter what happens, no matter where they go, where they end up, she will always have to carry a piece of him with her.

Years ago, when Oliver first came back, she promised Dean that her ex was not going to be a problem in their marriage and yet here they are, years later, with Ollie's ghost literally tattooed on her body.

She clears her throat. ''Dean - ''

''It's okay,'' he assures her right away. ''It doesn't matter. I don't care.'' He grabs her wrist gently, thumb over her pulse point, over the vines wrapped around her wrist, and tugs her over to him. ''As long as you're okay,'' he says. ''That's all that matters.'' He leans down to capture her lips in his, pulling her closer.

She kisses back, of course, winding an arm around his neck, pressing her body into his where it fits, where it has always fit, but it is not hard to notice that this kiss feels different. Tentative, in a way.

He rests his forehead on hers when he pulls away, breathes out, and then he looks down at her hands. He takes both of her hands in his and looks down at the markings. ''As long as you're okay,'' he says again, as he looks intently at the vines crawling down her arm, worming their way under her wedding rings, connecting her to Oliver Queen, now and forever.

.

.

.

 **end part nine**

* * *

 **AN: Soul Eaters were mentioned in episode 11x16 of SPN. It was the first time the Winchester brothers had ever come across one, but because HTLGI only goes up to S7 of SPN (with a few things thrown in from later seasons) they never battled that Soul Eater so this is the first time they (and everyone else) are learning about them. They have also never met Rowena. I just thought I'd name drop her because I love her.**

 **The second flashback in this chapter takes place in the direct aftermath of episode 1x04 of Arrow.**

 **Chapter title from ''Her Bliss Dwells on the Moon'' by Sirkka Selja.**


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